M 


J^.  Jak'^yn. 


THE   WORKS 


JOSEPH    ADDISON, 


THE  WHOLE  CONTENTS  OF  BP.  KURD'S  EDITION,  WITH  LETTERS 

AND  OTHER  PIECES  NOT  FOUND  IN  ANY  PREVIOUS 

COLLECTION ;  AND  MACAULAY'S  ESSAY 

ON  HIS  LIFE  AND  WORKS. 


EDITED, 

WITH     OEITICAL    AND     EXPLANATORY    NOTES, 
BY  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  GREENE. 


"  Fio  whiter  page  than  Addison  remaina, 
He  from  the  taste  obscene  reclaims  our  j'outh, 
And  sets  the  passions  on  the  side  of  truth ; 
Forms  the  soft  bosom  witn  tne  gentlest  art. 
And  pours  eaoh  koinan  virtue  thro'  the  heart," — Ton. 


IW        SIX       ^OL'UMBi 


NEW    YORK: 
DERBV   4    JAGKSON,    119     NASSATT    ST. 

1858. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1858, 

Bt  GEO,  P.  PUTNAM  &  CO., 

to  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  SoutJier* 

District  of  New-York. 


JAt, 


w 

^  0  <^ 

/ 

/  :  ■  *^ 

.  .  / 

TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 

Pagr 

Editor's  Preface,        .........  vi' 

Maoaulat,  on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Addison,        .        .  xiii 

Notice  of  Hukd ....  1 

Notice  and  Extracts  prefixed  to  Kurd's  Edition,                .        .  2 

Inscription  to  Addison  (by  Hurd),            •        •        •                 •        .  8 

Addison's  Dedication  to  Craqqs,           ..«••.  5 

Tickell's  Preface,      ........                 ^  *J 

To  THE  Earl  of  Warwick,             19 

Translations, .  23 

Introductory  Remarks  to  the  Translations,           ...  24 
Translation  of  Virgil's  Fourth  Georgic,                              .        .25 

Milton's  Stile  Imitated  in  a  Translation  out  of  the  Third  ^neid,  39 

Horace.     Ode  IH.  Book  III., 44 

Ovid's  Metamorphoses. — Story  of  Phaeton,     ....  49 

Phaeton's  Sisters  transformed  into  Trees,     .        .        .         .  61 

Transformation  of  Cycnus  into  a  Swan,           ....  68 

The  Story  of  Calisto, 66 


1?  TABLE      OFCONTENTS, 

Pagk. 
The  Story  of  Coronis,  and  Birth  of  iEsculapius,      .         .  70 

Ocyrrhoc  transformed  to  a  Man, 74 

Transformation  of  Battus  to  a  Touch-Stone,         .         .         .  76 

The  Story  of  Aglauros,  transformed  into  a  Statue,  .        .       77 

Europa's  Rape, 82 

Book  III. — Story  of  Cadmus,  85 

Transformation  of  Actceon, 91 

Birth  of  Bacchus,     ........  96 

Transformation  of  Tiresias,  ....  .98 

Transformation  of  Echo, 99 

Story  of  Narcissus,  .         101 

Story  of  Pentheus,  ...  .106 

The  Mariners  ti-ansformed  to  Dolphins,        .         .  .         107 

Death  of  Pentheus,  .112 

Book  IV. — Story  of  Salmaeis  and  Hermaphroditus,     .        .         114 
Notes  on  tlie  Stories  from  Ovid,       .        .        .         .  .119 

Poems  on  Several  Occ^vsions, 137 

Introductory  Remarks, 138 

To  Mr.  Dryden,  i;,'.( 

An  Account  of  the  Greatest  English  Poets,     .         .         .        .141 
Lines  to  the  King.     Presented  to  the  Lord  Keeper,     .         .         14.8 

To  the  King 160 

Letter  fi*om  Italy 100 

The  Campaign, 170 

mlbckllaneous  poems, 107 

Translation  of  Psalm  XXIII  199 

Hymn. — When  all  Thy  Mercies,  ....'.         200 

Divine  Ode. — ^The  Spacious  Firmament,  etc.,  .        .        .     202 

Divine  Ode,  made  by  a  Gentleman  on  the  conclusion  of  his 

Travels 203 

Hyum. — When  rising  from  the  Bed  of  Death,  .         .  206 


TABLE      OF      CONTENTS.  V 

Paor 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,            .                 ....  207 

To  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller .210 

The  Countess  of  Manchester  at  Paris,          ....  214 

Song. — My  Love  was  fickle  once, 214 

Imitation  of  our  English  Lyrics, 216 

Prologue  to  the  Tender  Husband,            .        .        .        .        .  21*7 

Epilogue  to  the  British  Enchanters, 218 

Epilogue  to  the  Distressed  Mother, 219 

Dramas,           .                 221 

Rosamond, 223 

Introductory  Remarks  to  Rosamond 225 

Tickell's  Verses  to  the  Author  of  Rosamond,           .         .        .  227 

-  The  Drummer, 265 

■•^  Introductory  Remarks  to  the  Drummer,          ....  266 

Steele's  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Mr.  Congreve,        .         .  267 

To  the  Countess  of  Warwi<'.k  on  her  Marriage,        .                  .  283 

Preface  to  the  Drummer .  285 

Epilogue, 362 

Cato, 366 

Introductory  Remarks  to  Cato 369 

Verses  to  the  Author  of  the  Tragedy  of  Cato,     .         ,        .  376 

Prologue,  by  Mr.  Pope,            386 

Epilogue,  by  Dr.  Garth,        .         .         .         .         .        .        .  462 

To  the  Princess  of  Wales,  with  the  Tragedy  of  Cato,      .        .  464 

POEMATA,           .          , 467 

Introductory  Remarks, 468 

Honoratissimo  Viro  Carolo  Montagu,             ...  471 

Pax  Gulielmi  Auspiciis  Europre  Reddita,  1697,        .         .  473 

Barometri  Descriptio,           ....                 .        .  479 

Prailium  inter  Pygmseos  et  Grues  Commissum,                 .         .  4S1 

Resunectio  Delineatu  ad  Alttu'   *     IMn-d.  Oxon,        .         .  4*7 


TABLE      OF      CONTENTS. 

?AGB. 

Sphseristerium, 491 

Ad  D.  D.  Hannes,  Insignissimum  Medicam  et  Poetam,  493 

Machinse  Gesticulantes,            496 

Ad  Insignissimum  Virum  D.  Tho.  Bumettum,  Sacra  Theoriss 

TelluriB  Autorem, 4t>8 


PREFACE 

BY    THE  AMERICAN    EDITOR. 

Few  men  have  been  more  careful  of  their  liteiary  rep- 
atation  than  Addison.  The  last  words  that  he  \\rote  for 
tlie  public  eye,  were  a  dedication  of  his  works  to  his  friend 
Mr.  Craggs.  At  the  same  time  he  gave  Tickell  particular 
directions  about  collecting  and  publishing  them,  justly  feel- 
ing that  there  was  nothing  in  them  which  he  could  look 
back  upon  with  regret,  even  from  his  death-bed.  Two 
years  afterwards,  the  first  edition  appeared  in  four  hand- 
some quartos,  with  an  engraving  from  Kneller's  portrait, 
an  emblematical  vignette^  and  a  full  list  of  subscribers. 
Tickell  undoubtedly  meant  to  do  justice  to  the  memory  of 
his  patron,  but  his  jealousy  of  Steele  prevented  him  from 
calhng  Addison's  earliest  and  most  intimate  friend  to 
his  assistance,  and  with  the  exception  of  the  papers  from 
the  Tatler,  which  were  pointed  out  by  Steele  at  Addison's 
request,  there  is  nothing  in  this  edition  which  any  other 
editor  might  not  have  done  equally  well.  The  only  ineditcd 
pieces  were  the  Dialogues  on  Medals  and  the  Treatise  of 


\ 


Vlll  PEFACE      BY      THE      AMERICAN      EDITOR. 

the  Christian  religion.  The  Drummer  was  omitted,  much 
to  Steele's  mortification,  who  immediately  republished  it 
with  many  bitter  complaints  of  the  editor's  carelessness  and 
malignity.  But  if  Tickell  did  less  than  he  might  have 
done  for  the  illustration  of  Addison's  life  and  writings,  he 
paid  a  noble  tribute  to  his  virtues  in  the  ^  verses  to  the 
Earl  of  Warwick,'  which  still  continues,  what  Goldsmith 
pronounced  it  to  be,  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago,  '  one  of 
the  finest  elegies  in  our  language.' 

Many  years  passed  before  another  edition  appeared. 
Meanwhile  Steele  died  without  fulfilling  his  promise  of 
making  up  for  TickelFs  omissions ;  Tickell  himself  added 
nothing  to  his  original  edition ;  and  all  the  members  of  that 
'  little  senate,'  each  of  whom  might  have  told  us  many 
things  we  should  have  been  glad  to  know,  passed  away  one 
by  one,  leaving  us  as  much  in  the  dark  concerning  some  of 
the  most  interesting  events  of  Addison's  literary  life,  as  if 
he  had  passed  all  his  days  among  men  who  had  no  preten- 
sions to  scholarship.  Particular  works  were  reiDrinted  from 
time  to  time  ;  the  Spectator  oftenest  of  all ;  the  letter  from 
Italy  retaining  its  place  in  miscellanies  and  collections; 
and  Cato  never  completely  losing  its  hold  upon  the  stage. 
Finally  the  whole  works  were  republished  by  Baskerville, 
with  that  typographical  elegance  which  has  given  his  edi- 
tions so  high  a  value  for  the  lovers  of  handsome  books ;  and 
again  in  London  in  1804 ;  but  merely  as  reprints  of  the 
original  edition  of  1721. 

"At  last  Bishop  Hard,  resting  a  wliile  from  polemics 
and  his  Boswcllian  contemplation  of  Warburton,  betook 


PREFACE     BY     THE      AMERICAN     EDITOR.  IX 

himself  to  a  serious  study  of  the  great  master  of  Enghsh 
prose.  No  two  men  could  have  been  more  unlike  than 
Addison  and  Hurd.  Addison  mild,  genial  and  indepen- 
dent ;  Hurd  bitter,  irascible  and  cringing ;  the  one  raising 
himself  to  the  highest  rank  by  the  force  of  talent,  without 
the  sacrifice  of  a  friendship  or  a  principle ;  the  other  mak- 
ing his  way  by  subtle  serviHty,  and  eagerly  grasping  at 
every  means  of  promotion. 

Still  Hurd  possessed  some  qualifications  for ,  his  task. 
He  was  an  admirer  of  good  writing,  and  though  cold,  was 
not  deficient  in  taste.  He  came  with  the  feelings  of  a  gram- 
marian of  the  old  school,  to  weigh  words  and  start  ques- 
tions of  syntax ;  and  Addison  furnishes  abundant  materials 
for  both.  It  is  amusing  to  see  with  what  a  tone  the  learned 
prelate  pronounces  sentence  upon  offending  particles,  and 
how  rigorously  he  keeps  sense  and  sentiment  out  of  sight. 
Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  he  betrays  an  indistinct  con- 
sciousness that  thgre  is  something  more  in  his  text  than 
mere  specimens  of  style ;  but  most  of  his  raptures  are  re- 
served for  some  happy  construction  or  a  word  of  pecu- 
Har  elegance.  It  is  of  no  use  to  ask  for  the  explanation  of 
an  histoiical  allusion,  for  he  has  none  to  give  you.  Manners 
and  customs  he  passes  by  as  though  they  had  no  bearing 
upon  the  subject ;  and  leaves  you  to  deal  with  proper  names 
as  if  every  body  could  be  his  own  biographical  dictionary. 
Still  his  notes  are  not  without  their  value  for  the  mi- 
nute study  of  language.  You  may  read  them  as  you  do 
Blair's  '  critical  examination,'  and  find  yourself  strength- 
ened in  verbal  criticism ;  and  though  it  is  impossible  not 


X  PREFACE      BY      THE      AMERICAN      EDITOR. 

to  feel  tliat  when  the  Bishop  of  Worcester  took  up  his  pen 
to  commentate  Addison,  he  ought  to  have  taken  a  wider 
range ;  yet  within  the  Hmits  which  he  set  himself  the  task 
is  well  done,  and  his  commentary  will  always  find  its  place 
in  a  variorum. 

A  little  before  Hurd  began  his  grammatical  commen- 
tary, a  writer  of  vastly  higher  qualifications  announced  his 
intention  of  giving  a  new  edition  of  Addison.  This  was 
Beattie,  who  had  made  the  Spectator  his  model  in  prose, 
and  who  sympathized,  both  in  prose  and  in  verse,  with  the 
classic  taste  of  his  master.  Unfortunately  this  design  was 
never  fully  carried  out  ;  other  occupations  and  ill  health 
compelling  him  to  confine  himself  to  a  reprint  and  occa- 
sional commentary  of  the  miscellaneous  pieces.  And  it 
will  ever  continue  a  matter  of  surprise,  that  while  Swift 
and  Dryden  found  an  editor  like  Scott ;  and  Pope;  already 
so  loaded  down  with  commentation,  reappeared  in  two 
rival  editions,  no  one  should  have  felt  thaj  the  best  service 
that  could  be  rendered  to  the  cause  of  virtue  and  pure 
taste,  would  be  an  accurate  edition  of  Addison. 

The  present  edition,  without  pretending  to  contain  all 
that  might  be  done  for  the  illustration  of  this  eminent, 
writer,  claims  to  be,  in  some  respects,  superior  to  all  its 
predecessors.  The  poems,  which  were  carelessly  thrown 
together  in  former  editions,  without  any  regard  to  their 
subject  or  their  relative  importance,  have  been  accurately 
arranged,  and,  where  the  occasion  required  it,  illustrated 
by  notes.  Several  of  Addison's  finest  poems  were  origi- 
nally published  in  the  Guardian  and  S^^ctator  :  these  are 


PREFACE      BY      THE      AMERICAN      EDITOR.  XI 

now  placed  under  their  proper  heads.  Portions  of  his  cor- 
respondence, always  the  most  faithful  picture  of  a  great 
man's  heart,  have  heen  inserted  at  various  times  in  diflPer- 
ent  publications,  particularly  in  the  Addisoniana  and  in 
le  life  of  Addison  by  Miss  Aikin.  These  are  now  care- 
fully collected  and  classed,  as  they  deserve  to  be,  among 
his  works.  The  political  tracts  have  been  classed  mth  the 
purely  political  essays .;  and  the  "  Old  Whig,"  which  was 
omitted  in  all  the  other  editions,  is  given  in  this  in  its  pro- 
per place.  Many  of  Addison's  writings  originally  possessed 
a  local  and  temporary  interest,  which  they  have  not  only 
lost  for  the  modern  reader,  but  have  lost  with  it  somewhat 
of  that  charm  which  arises  from  a  familiarity  with  the 
names  and  circumstances  to  which  they  allude.  As  far  as 
notes  can  revive  it,  it  is  hoped  that  the  charm  is  in  some 
measure  restored  in  the  present  edition.  The  original 
orthography  had  been  modernized  by  Hurd,  whose  system 
will  be  found,  with  a  few  exceptions,  to  correspond  to  the" 
best  usage  of  the  present  day.  The  American  editor  has 
not  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  reduce  it  to  any  cisatlantic 
standard.  A  list  of  the  principal  editions  of  Addison 
will  be  found  in  the  fifth  volume. 

New- York,  August  16,  1853. 


LIFE  AND  WKITINGS  OF  ADDISON.^ 

BY   THOMAS  BABIN&TOIf  MAOAULAT. 

To  Addison  we  are  bound  by  a  sentiment  as  much  like  affection  as 
any  sentiment  can  be  which  is  inspired  by  one  who  has  been  sleep- 
ing a  hundred  and  twenty  years  in  Westminster  Abbey.  We  trust, 
however,  that  this  feeling  will  not  betray  us  into  that  abject  idolatry 
which  we  have  often  had  occasion  to  reprehend  in  others,  and  which 
seldom  fails  to  make  both  the  idolater  and  the  idol  ridiculous.  A  man 
of  genius  and  virtue  is  but  a  man.  All  his  powers  cannot  be  equally 
developed ;  nor  can  we  expect  from  him  perfect  self-knowledge.  We 
need  not,  therefore,  hesitate  to  admit  that  Addison  has  left  us  some 
compositions  that  do  not  rise  above  mediocrity,  some  heroic  poem's 
hardly  equal  to  Parnell's,  some  criticisms  as  superficial  as  Dr.  Blair's, 
and  a  tragedy  not  very  much  better  than  Dr.  Johnson's.  It  is  praise 
enough  to  say  of  a  writer,  that,  in  a  high  department  of  literature,  in 
which  many  eminent  writers  have  distinguished  themselves,  he  has  had 
no  equal;  and  this  may  with  strict  justice  be  said  of  Addison. 

As  a  man  he  may  not  have  deserved  the  adoration  which  he  received 
from  those,  who,  bewitched  by  his  fascinating  society,  and  indebted  for 
all  the  comforts  of  life  to  his  generous  and  delicate  friendship,  worshipped 
him  nightly  in  his  favorite  temple  at  Button's.  But,  after  full  inquiry 
and  impartial  reflection,  we  have  long  been  convinced,  that  he  deserved 
as  much  love  and  esteem  as  can  be  justly  claimed  by  any  of  our  infirm 
and  erring  race.     Some  blemishes  may  undoubtedly  be  detected  in  his 


1  In  selecting  a  critical  review  of  the  life  and  writings  of  Addison,  tiiere  could  be  no  liesi- 
tation  in  giving  the  preference  to  Macaulay's  celebrated  essay,  one  of  the  most  elaborate  of 
bis  brilliaii  t  collection.  The  introductorj'  paragraph,  which  refiM-s  especially  to  Misa  Alkln'i 
life  of  Addison,  has  been  omitted.— G. 


liy  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

character ;  but  the  more  carefully  it  is  examined,  the  more  will  it  ap- 
;ar,  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  old  anatomists,  sound  in  the  no-ble  parts 
— free  from  all  taint  of  perfidy,  of  cowardice,  of  cruelty,  of  ingratitude, 
of  envy.  Men  may  easily  be  named  in  whom  some  particular  good  dis- 
position has  been  more  conspicuous  than  in  Addison.  But  the  just  har- 
mony of  qualities,  the  exact  temper  between  the  stern  and  the  humane 
virtues,  the  habitual  observance  of  cverj^  law,  not  only  of  moral  recti- 
tude, but  of  moral  grace  and  dignity,  distinguish  him  from  all  men  who 
have  been  tried  by  equally  full  information. 

His  father  was  the  R^iverend  Lancelot  Addison,  who,  though  eclipsed 
by  his  more  celebrated  son,  made  some  figure  in  the  world,  and  occupies 
with  credit  two  folio  pages  in  the  "  Biographia  Britannica."  Lancelot 
was  sent  up,  as  a  poor  scholar,  from  Westmoreland  to  Queen's  College, 
Oxford,  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth ;  made  some  progress  in 
learning ;  became,  like  most  of  his  fellow-students,  a  violent  royalist ; 
lampooned  the  heads  of  the  university,  and  was  forced  to  ask  pardon 
on  his  bended  knees.  When  he  had  left  college,  he  earned  an  humble 
subsistence  by  reading  the  liturgy  of  the  fallen  church  to  the  families 
of  those  sturdy  squires  whose  manor-houses  were  scattered  over  the 
Wild  of  Sussex.  After  the  restoration,  his  royalty  was  rewarded  with 
the  post  of  chaplain  to  the  garrison  of  Dunkirk.  When  Dunkirk  was 
sold  to  France,  he  lost  his  employment.  But  Tangier  had  been  ceded 
by  Portugal  to  England  as  part  of  the  marriage  portion  of  the  Infanta 
Catliarine ;  and  to  Tangier  Lancelot  Addison  was  sent.  A  more  mise- 
rable situation  can  hardly  be  conceived.  It  was  diflicult  to  say  whether 
the  unfortunate  settlers  were  more  tormented  by  the  heats  or  by  the 
rains ;  by  the  soldiers  within  the  wall  or  the  Moors  without  it.  One 
advantage  the  chaplain  had.  He  enjoyed  an  excellent  opportunity  of 
studying  the  history  and  manners  of  the  Jews  and  Mohammedans  j 
and  of  this  opportunit}"-  he  appears  to  have  made  excellent  use.  On  his 
return  to  England,  after  some  years  of  banishment,  he  published  an  in- 
teresting volume  on  the  polity  and  religion  of  Barbary  j  and  another  on 
the  Hebrew  customs,  and  the  state  of  rabbinical  lei^rning.  He  rose  to 
eminence  in  his  profession,  and  became  one  of  the  royal  chaplains,  a 
doctor  of  divinity,  archdeacon  of  Salisbury  and  dean  of  Litchfield.  It 
is  said  that  he  would  have  been  made  a  bishop  after  the  Revolution,  if 
he  had  not  given  offence  to  the  government  by  strenuously  opposing 
the  convocation  of  1G89,  the  liberal  policy  of  William  and  Tillotson. 

In  1G72,  not  long  after  Dr.  Addison's  return  from  Tangier,  his  son 
Joseph  was  born.  Of  Joseph's  cliildhood  we  know  little.  He  learned 
his  rudiments  at  schools  in  his  father's  neighborhood,  and  was  then  sent 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XV 

to  the  Charter  House.  The  anecdotes  which  are  popularly  related  about 
his  boyish  tricks  do  not  harmonize  very  well  with  what  we  know  of 
his  riper  years.  There  remains  a  tradition  that* he  was  the  ringleader 
in  a  barring-out ;  and  another  tradition  that  he  ran  away  from  school, 
and  hid  himself  in  a  wood,  where  he  fed  on  berries  and  slept  in  a  hollow 
tree,  till  after  a  long  search  he  was  discovered  and  brought  home.  If 
these  stories  be  true,  it  would  be  curious  to  know  by  what  moral  dis- 
cipline so  mutinous  and  enterprising  a  lad  was  transformed  into  the  gen- 
tlest and  most  modest  of  men. 

We  have  abundant  proof  that,  whatever  Joseph's  pranks  may  have 
been,  he  pursued  his  studies  vigorously  and  successfully.  At  fifteen  he 
was  not  only  fit  for  the  university,  but  carried  thither  a  classical  taste, 
and  a  stock  of  learning  which  would  have  done  honor  to  a  master  of 
arts.  He  was  entered  at  Queen's  College,  Oxford ;  but  he  had  not  been 
many  months  there,  when  some  of  his  Latin  verses  fell  by  accident  into 
the  hands  of  Dr.  Lancaster,  dean  of  Magdalene  College.  The  young 
scholar's  diction  and  versification  were  already  such  as  veteran  professors 
might  envy.  Dr.  Lancaster  was  desirous  to  serve  a  boy  of  such  promise; 
nor  was  an  opportunity  long  wanting.  The  Revolution  had  just  taken 
place ;  and  nowhere  had  it  been  hailed  with  more  delight  than  at  Mag- 
dalene College.  That  great  and  opulent  corporation  had  been  treated 
by  James,  and  by  his  chancellor,  with  an  insolence  and  injustice  which, 
even  in  such  a  prince  and  in  such  a  minister,  may  justly  excite  amaze- 
ment; and  which  had  done  more  than  even  the  prosecution  of  the 
bishops  to  alienate  the  Church  of  England  from  the  throne.  A  presi- 
dent, duly  elected,  had  been  violently  expelled  from  his  dwelling.  A 
papist  had  been  set  over  the  society  by  a  royal  mandate :  the  Fellows, 
who,  in  conformity  with  their  oaths,  refused  to  submit  to  this  usurper 
had  been  driven  forth  from  their  quiet  cloisters  and  gardens,  to  die  of 
want  or  to  live  on  charity.  But  the  day  of  redress  and  retribution 
speedily  camei  The  intruders  were  ejected  ;  the  venerable  house  was 
again  inhabited  by  its  old  inmates  :  learning  flourished  under  the  rule 
of  the  wise  and  virtuous  Hough ;  and  with  learning  was  united  a  mild 
and  liberal  spirit,  too  often  wanting  in  the  princely  colleges  of  Oxford. 
In  consequence  of  the  troubles  through  which  the  society  had  passed, 
there  had  been  no  election  of  new  members  during  the  year  1688.  In 
1689,  therefore,  there  was  twice  the  ordinary  number  of  vacancies ;  and 
thus  Dr.  Lancaster  found  it  easy  to  procure  for  his  young  friend^dmit 
tance  ta  the  advantages  of  a  foundation  then  generally  esteemed  the 
wealthiest  in  Europe. 

At  Magdalene,  Addison  resided  during  ten  years.     He  was,  at  first. 


XVI  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

one  of  those  scholars  who  are  called  demies ;  but  was  subse  3[uetitly 
elected  a  fellow/  His  college  is  still  proud  of  his  name  ;  his  portrait 
still  hangs  in  the  hall ;  and  strangers  are  still  told  that  his  favorite 
walk  was  under  the  elms  which  fringe  the  meadow  on  the  banks  of  th© 
CherwelL'  It  is  said,  and  is  highly  probable,  that  he  was  distinguished 
among  his  fellow-students  by  the  delicacy  of  his  feelings,  by  the  shyness 
of  his  manners,  and  by  the  assiduity  with  which  he  often. prolonged 
his  studies  far  into  the  night.  It  is  certain  that  his  reputation  for  abili- 
ty and  learning  stood  high.  Many  years  later  the  ancient  doctors  of 
Magdalene  continued  to  talk  in  their  common  room  of  boyish  composi- 
tions, and  expressed  their  sorrow  that  no  copy  of  exercises  so  remarka- 
ble had  been  preserved. 

It  is  proper,  however,  to  remark,  that  Miss  Aikin has  committed  the 
error,  very  pardonable  in  a  lady,  of  overrating  Addison's  classical  at- 
tainments. In  one  department  of  learning,  indeed,  his  proficiency  was 
such  as  it  is  hardly  possible  to  overrate.  His  knowledge  of  the  Latin 
poets,  from  Lucretius  and  Catullus  down  to  Claudian  and  Prudentius, 
was  singularly  exact  and  profound.  He  understood  them  thoroughly, 
entered  into  their  spirit,  and  had  the  finest  and  most  discriminating 
perception  of  all  their  peculiarities  of  style  and  melody ;  nay,  he  copied 
their  manner  with  admirable  skill,  and  surpassed,  we  think,  all  their 
British  imitators  who  had  preceded  him,  Buchanan  and  Milton  alone 
excepted.  This  is  high  praise ;  and  be3-ond  this  we  cannot  with  justice 
go.  It  is  clear  that  Addison's  serious  attention,  during  his  residence  at 
the  university,  was  almost  entirely  concentrated  on  Latin  poetry  ;  and 
that,  if  he  did  not  wholly  neglect  other  provinces  of  ancient  literature, 
he  vouchsafed  to  them  only  a  cursory  glance.  He  does  not  appear  to 
have  attained  more  than  an  ordinary  acquaintance  with  the  political  and 
moral  writers  of  Home ;  nor  was  his  own  Latin  prose  by  any  mea^  ^ 

1  He  became  fellow  in  course ;  Demies  being  students  upon  scholarships,  who  succeed 
In  their  order  to  the  vacant  fellowshipa— G. 

9  Addition's  walk:  at  Oxford.  "  Passing  to  the  rear  of  Magdalene  College,  on  the  loft 
there  opens  a  park  filled  with  very  ancient  and  noble  trees,  making  that '  chequered  shade' 
upon  the  short  and  verdant  gi-ass  which  poets  love  to  talk  about;  while  here  and  there  are 
groups  of  deer  stmding  up  or  lying  down  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  and  conteutnu-nt  be- 
longing to  creatures  occupying  their  native  possessions.  Then  turning  to  the  right  you  enter 
through  a  tasteful  iron  gate  and  over  a  slight  bridge,  upon  a  walk,  which,  extending  some 
distance  to  the  left,  turns  abruptly  to  the  right,  when  it  stretches  along  the  Cherwell  and 
makes  the  circuit  of  tlie  meadow.  The  trees  throw  a  perpetual  shade  overhead,  and  the 
Cherwell  keeps  up  a  tinkling  and  gurgling  melody  beside  you.  Here  a  rustic  mill  catches 
the  eye,  there  the  towers  of  some  of  the  colleges  appear,  half  concealed  by  the  intervening 
trees.  Left  and  right  of  tlie  walk  are  the  brightest  meadows;  further  off  are  views  of  the 
richly  cultivated  country.  And  this  is  Addison's  walk."— Tappan's  Step  from  the  Ifeio 
World  to  the  Old.—Y.  1,  p.  140. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS     OP     ADDISON.  Xvi'l 

equal  to  his  Latin  verse.  His  knowledge  of  Greek,  though  doubtless 
such  as  was,  in  his  time,  thought  respectable  at  Oxford,  was  evidently 
less  than  that  which  many  lads  now  carry  away  every  year  from  Eton 
and  Rugby.  A  minute  examination  of  his  work,  if  we  had  time  to 
make  such  an  examination,  would  fully  bear  out  these  remarks.  We 
will  briefly  advert  to  a  few  of  the  facts  on  which  our  judgment  is 
grounded. 

Great  praise  is  due  to  the  notes  which  Addison  appended  to  his  version 
of  the  second  and  third  books  of  the  Metamorphoses.  Yet  these  notes, 
while  they  show  him  to  have  been,  in  his  own  domain,  an  accomplished 
scholar,  show  also  how  confined  that  domain  was.  They  are  rich  in  appo- 
site references  to  Virgil,  Statins,  and  Claudian  ;  but  they  contain  not  a 
single  illustration  drawn  from  the  Greek  poets.  Now  if,  in  the  whole 
compass  of  Latin  literature,  there  be  a  passage  which  stands  in  need  of 
illustration  drawn  from  the  Greek  poets,  it  is  the  story  of  Pentheus  in 
the  third  book  of  the  Metamorphoses.  Ovid  was  indebted  for  that 
story  to  Euripides  and  Theocritus,  both  of  whom  he  has  sometimes 
followed  minutely.  But  neither  to  Euripides  nor  to  Theocritus  does 
Addison  make  the  faintest  allusion  ;  and  we,  therefore,  believe  that  wo 
do  not  wrong  him  by  supposing  that  he  had  little  or  no  knowledge  of 
their  works. 

His  travels  in  Italy,  again,  abouqd  with  classical  quotations,  hap- 
pily introduced ;  but  his  quotations,  with  scarcely  a  single  exception, 
are  taken  from  Latin  verse.  He  draws  more  illustrations  from  Auso- 
nius  and  Manilius  than  from  Cicero.  Even  his  notions  of  the  political 
and  military  affairs  of  the  Romans  seem  to  be  derived  from  poets  and 
poetasters.  Spots  made  memorable  by  events  which  have  changed  the 
destinies  of  the  world,  and  have  been  worthily  recorded  by  great  histo- 
rians, bring  to  his  mind  only  scraps  of  some  ancient  Pye  or  Hayley. 
In  the  gorge  of  the  Apennines  he  naturally  remembers  the  hardships 
which  Hannibal's  army  endured,  and  proceeds  to  cite,  not  the  authen- 
tic narrative  of  Polybius,  not  the  picturesque  narrative  of  Livy, 
but  the  languid  hexameters  of  Silius  Italicus.  On  the  banks  of  the 
Rubicon  he  never  thinks  of  Plutarch's  lively  description ;  or  of  the 
stern  conciseness  of  the  commentaries ;  or  of  those  letters  to  Atticus 
which  so  forcibly  express  the  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  in  a  sensi- 
tive mind  at  a  great  crisis.  His  only  authority  for  the  events  of  the 
civil  war  is  Lucan. 

All  the  best  ancient  works  of  art  at  Rome  and  Florence  are  Greek. 
Addison  saw  them,  however,  without  recalling  one  single  verse  of 
^indar,  of  Callimachus,  or  of  the  Attic  dramatists ;  but  they  brought 


XVIU  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

to  his  recollection  innumerable  passages  in  Horace,  Juvenal,  Statius, 
and  Ovid. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  "  Treatise  on  jMedals."  In  that  pleas- 
ing work  we  find  about  three  hundred  passages  extracted  with  great 
judgment  from  the  Roman  poets  ;  but  we  do  not  recollect  a  single  pas- 
sage taken  from  any  Roman  orator  or  historian  ;  and  we  are  confident 
that  not  a  line  is  quoted  from  any  Greek  writer.  No  person  who  had 
derived  all  his  information  on  the  subject  of  medals  from  Addison, 
would  suspect  that  the  Greek  coins  were  in  historical  interest  equal,  and 
in  beauty  of  execution  far  superior  to  those  of  Rome. 

If  it  were  necessary  to  lind  any  further  proof  that  Addison's  classi- 
cal knowledge  was  confined  within  narrow  limits,  that  proof  would  be 
furnished  by  his  "Essay  on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity."  The 
Roman  poets  throw  little  or  no  light  on  the  literary  and  historical  ques- 
tions which  he  is  under  the  necessity  of  examining  in  that  essay.  He 
is,  therefore,  left  completely  in  the  dark ;  and  it  is  melancholy  to  see 
how  helplessly  he  gropes  his  way  from  blunder  to  blunder.  He  assigns 
as  grounds  for  his  religious  belief,  stories  as  absurd  as  that  of  the  Cock- 
lane  ghost,  and  forgeries  as  rank  as  Ireland's  "  Vortigern ; "  puts  faith 
in  the  lie  about  the  thundering  legion ;  is  convinced  that  Tiberius  moved 
the  senate  to  admit  Jesus  among  the  gods ;  and  pronounces  the  letter 
of  Abgarus,  king  of  Edessa,  to  be  a  record  of  great  authority.  Nor 
were  these  errors  the  effects  of  superstition  ;  for  to  superstition  Addison 
was  by  no  means  prone.  The  truth  is,  that  he  was  writing  about  what 
he  did  not  understand. 

Miss  Aikin  has  discovered  a  letter  from  which  it  appears  that,  while 
Addison  resided  at  Oxford,  he  was  one  of  several  writers  whom  the 
booksellers  engaged  to  make  an  English  version  of  Herodotus  ;  and  she 
infers  that  he  must  have  been  a  good  Greek  scholar.^  We  can  allow 
very  little  weight  to  this  argument,  when  we  consider  that  his  fellow- 
laborers  were  to  have  been  Boyle  and  Blackmore.  Boyle  is  remem- 
bered chiefly  as  the  nominal  author  of  the  worst  book  on  Greek  history 
and  philology  that  ever  was  printed  ;  and  this  book,  bad  as  it  is,  Boyle 
was  unable  to  produce  without  help.  Of  Blackmore's  attainments  in 
the  ancient  tongues,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  say  that,  in  his  prose,  ho 
has  confounded  an  aphorism  with  an  apophthegm,  and  that  when,  in 

3  A(1(]i!>ov''ii  knoidedge  of  Greek.  Mr.  Macanlay  is  probably  right  In  his  estimate  of 
A(1(lisnn"s  Greek;  yet  wc  often  find  him  quoting  passflfres  froui  Greek  writers  witl)  great 
apparent  faii.iliarlty.— V.  Spectator,  253,  &c. ;  and  it  is  not  unfair  therefore  to  suppose  that 
he  extended  lild  circle  of  Greek  reading  after  he  left  the  University.  The  same  accusatioa 
was  bronght  against  Johnson,  who  was  not  a  little  annoyed  by  it— G. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XIX 

his  verse,  he  treats  of  classical  subjects,  his  habit  is  to  regale  his  readers 
with  four  false  quantities  to  a  page  ! 

It  is  probable  that  the  classical  acquirements  of  Addison  were  of  as 
much  service  to  him  as  if  they  had  been  more  extensive.     The  world 
generally  gives  its  admiration,  not  to  the  man  who  does  what  nobody 
«ise  even  attempts  to  do,  but  to  the  man  who  does  best  what  multi-  ^ 
tudes  do  well.     Bentley  was  so  immeasurabl}'-  superior  to  all  the  Other 
scholars  of  his  time  that  very  few  among  them  could  discover  his  supe- 
riority.    But  the  accomplishment  in  which  Addison  excelled  his  con- 
temporaries was  then,  as  it  is  now,  highly  valued  and  assiduously  cul- 
tivated at  all  English  seats  of  learning.     Every  body  who  had  been  at  a 
public  school  had  written  Latin  verses  ;  many  had  written  such  verses 
with  tolerable  success ;  and  were  quite  able  to  appreciate,  though  by  no         r" 
means  able  to  rival,  the  skill  with  which  Addison  imitated  Virgil.     His  *^-  /  '*^ 
lines  on  the  Barometer,  and  the  Bowling-Green,  were  applauded  by     $ 
hundreds  to  whom  the  "  Dissertation  on  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris  "  was 
as  unintelligible  as  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  obelisk. 

Purity  of  style,  and  an  easy  flow  of  numbers,  are  common  to  all 
Addison's  Latin  poems.  Our  favourite  piece  is  the  Battle  of  the  Cranes 
and  Pygmies ;  for  in  that  piece  we  discern  a  gleam  of  the  fancy  and  \^ 
humour  which  many  years  later  enlivened  thousands  of  breakfast  tables. 
Swift  boasted  that  he  was  never  known  to  steal  a  hint :  and  he  certainly 
owed  as  little  to  his  predecessors  as  any  modern  writer.  Yet  we  can- 
not help  suspecting  that  he  borrowed,  perhaps  unconsciously,  one  of  the 
happiest  touches  in  his  Voyage  to  Lilliput  from  Addison's  verses.  Let 
our  readers  judge. 

"  The  Emperor,"  says  Gulliver,  "  is  taller  by  about  the  breadth  of 
my  nail  than  any  of  his  court,  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe 
into  the  beholders." 

About  thirty  years  before  Gulliver's  Travels  appeared,  Addison 
wrote  these  lines : — 

"  Jamqne  acies  inter  medias  sese  arduus  Infert 
Pygmeadum  ductor,  qui,  inajestate  verendus, 
Incessuque  gravis,  reliquos  supereminet  omnes 
Mole  gigantea,  mediamque  exsurgit  in  ulnam." 

The  Latin  poems  of  Addison  were  greatly  and  justly  admired  both 
at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  before  his  name  had  ever  been  heard  by  the 
wits  who  thronged  the  coffee-houses  round  Drury  Lane  theatre.  In  his 
twenty-second  year  he  ventured  to  appear  before  the  public  as  a  writer 
of  English  verse.     He  addressed  some  complimentary  lines  to  Drydeu, 


XX  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OP     ADDISON. 

who  after  many  triumphs  and  many  reverses,  had  at  length  reached  a 
secure  and  lonely  eminence  among  the  literary  men  of  that  age.  Dry- 
den  appears  to  have  been  much  gratified  by  the  young  scholar's  praise ; 
and  an  interchange  of  civilities  and  good  offices  followed.  Addison  was 
probably  introduced  by  Dryden  to  Congreve,  and  was  certainly  present- 
ed by  Congreve  to  Charles  Montagu,  who  was  then  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer,  and  leader  of  the  whig  party  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

At  this  time  Addison  seemed  inclined  to  devote  himself  to  poetry. 
He  published  a  translation  of  part  of  the  fourth  Georgic,  Lines  to  King 
William,  and  other  performances  of  equal  value ;  that  is  to  say.  of  no 
value  at  all.  But  in  those  days  the  pubhc  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
with  applause  pieces  which  would  now  have  little  chance  of  obtaining 
the  Newdigate  prize,  or  the  Seatonian  prize.  And  the  reason  is  obvious. 
The  heroic  couplet  was  then  the  favorite  measure.  The  art  of  arrang- 
ing words  in  that  measure,  so  that  the  lines  may  flow  smoothly,  that 
the  accents  may  fall  correctly,  that  the  rhymes  may  strike  the  ear  strong- 
ly, and  that  there  may  be  a  pause  at  the  end  of  every  distich,  is  an  art 
as  mechanical  as  that  of  mending  a  kettle,  or  shoeing  a  horse ;  and  may 
be  learned  by  any  human  being  who  has  sense  enough  to  learn  any 
thing.  But,  like  other  mechanical  arts,  it  was  gradually  improved  by 
means  of  many  experiments  and  many  failures.  It  was  reserved  for 
Pope  to  discover  the  trick,  to  make  himself  complete  master  of  it,  and 
to  teach  it  to  every  body  else.  From  the  time  when  his  "  Pastorals  " 
appeared,  heroic  versification  became  matter  of  rule  and  compass  ;  and, 
before  long,  all  artists  were  on  a  level.  Hundreds  of  dunces  who  never 
blundered  on  one  happy  thought  or  expression  were  able  to  write  reams 
of  couplets  which,  as  far  as  euphony  was  concerned,  could  not  be  dis- 
tinguished from  those  of  Pope  himself,  and  which  very  clever  writers  of 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second — Rochester,  for  example,  or  Marvel,  or 
Oldham — would  have  contemplated  with  admiring  despair. 

Ben  Jonson  was  a  great  man,  Hoole  a  very  small  man.  But  Hoole, 
coming  after  Pope,  had  learned  how  to  manufacture  decasyllabic  verses ; 
and  poured  them  forth  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  all  as  well 
turned,  as  smooth,  and  as  like  each  other  as  the  blocks  which  have 
passed  through  ]\Ir.  Brunell's  mill,  in  the  dockyard  at  Portsmouth. 
Ben's  heroic  couplets  resemble  blocks  rudely  hewn  out  by  an  unprac- 
tised hand,  with  a  blunt  hatchet.  Take  as  a  specimen  his  translation 
of  a  celebrated  passage  in  the  iEneid  :— 

"  This  child  our  parent  earth,  stirred  up  with  spite 
Of  all  the  gods,  brought  forth,  and,  as  some  write, 
She  was  last  sister  of  that  giant  race 
That  sought  to  scale  Jove's  court,  right  swift  of  pace, 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXI 

And  swifter  far  of  wing,  a  monster  vast 
And  dreadful.    Look,  how  many  plumes  are  placed 
On  ber  huge  corpse,  so  many  waking  eyes 
Stick  underneatli,  and,  which  may  stranger  rise 
In  the  report,  as  many  tongues  slie  wears." 

Compare  with  these  jagged  misshapen  distichs  the  neat  fabric  which 
Hoole'S  machine  produces  in  unlimited  abundance.  We  take  the  first 
lines  on  which  we  open  in  his  version  of  Tasso.  They  are  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  the  rest : — 

"  0  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  whose  steps  are  led 
By  choice  or  fate,  these  lonely  shores  to  tread, 
No  greater  wonders  east  or  west  can  boast 
Than  yon  small  island  on  the  pleasing  coast 
If  e'er  thy  sight  would  blissful  scenes  explore, 
The  current  pass,  and  seek  the  further  shore." 

Ever  since  the  time  of  Pope  there  has  been  a  glut  of  lines  of  this 
sort ;  and  we  are  now  as  little  disposed  to  admire  a  man  for  being  able 
to  write  them  as  for  being  able  to  write  his  name.  But  in  the  days  of 
William  the.  Third  such  versification  was  rare  ;  and  a  rhymer  who  had 
any  skill  in  it  passed  for  a  great  poet ;  just  as  in  the  dark  ages  a  person 
who  could  write  his  name  passed  for  a  great  clerk.  Accordingly,  Duke, 
Stepney,  Granville,  Walsli,  and  others,  whose  only  title  to  fame  was 
that  they  said  in  tolerable  metre  what  might  have  been  as  well  said  in 
prose,  or  what  was  not  worth  saying  at  all,  were  honoured  with  marks 
of  distinction  which  ought  to  be  reserved  for  genius.  With  these  Ad- 
dison must  have  ranked,  if  he  had  not  earned  true  and  lasting  glory  by 
performances  which  very  little  resembled  his  juvenile  poems. 

Dryden  was  now  busied  with  Virgil,  and  obtained  from  Addison  a 
critical  preface  to  the  Georgics.  In  return  for  this  service,  and  for  other 
services  of  the  same  kind,  the  veteran  poet,  in  the  postscript  to  the  trans- 
lation of  the  ^neid,  complimented  his  young  friend  with  great  liberality, 
and  indeed  with  more  liberality  than  sincerity.  He  affected  to  be  afraid 
that  his  own  performance  would  not  sustain  a  comparison  with  the  ver- 
sion of  the  fourth  Georgic,  by  '"  the  most  ingenious  Mr.  Addison  of  Ox- 
ford." "  After  his  bees,"  added  Dryden,  "  my  latter  swarm  is  scarcely 
worth  the  hiving." 

The  time  had  now  arrived  when  it  was  necessary  for  Addison  to 
choose  a  calling.  Every  thing  seemed  to  point  his  course  toward  the 
clerical  profession.  His  habits  were  regular,  his  opinions  orthodox. 
His  college  had  large  ecclesiastical  preferment  in  its  gift,  and  boasts  that 
it  has  given  at  least  one  bishop  to  almost  every  see  in  England.     Dr. 


XXll  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS     OF      ADDISON. 

Lancelot  Addison  held  an  honourable  place  in  the  church,  and  had  set 
his  heart  on  seeing  his  son  a  clergyman.  It  is  clear,  from  some  expres- 
sions in  the  young  man's  rhymes,  that  his  intention  was  to  take  orders. 

*  But  Charles  Montagu  interfered.  Montagu  first  brought  himself  into 
notice  by  verses,  well-timed  and  not  contemptibly  written,  but  never, 
we  think,  rising  above  mediocrity.  Fortunately  for  himself  and  for  his 
countr}'-.  he  early  quitted  poetry,  in  which  he  could  never  have  obtained 
a  rank  as  high  as  that  of  Dorset  or  Roscommon,  and  turned  his  mind 
to  official  and  parliamentary  business.  It  is  written  that  the  ingenious 
person  who  undertook  to  instruct  Rasselas,  prince  of  Abyssinia,  in  the 
art  of  flying,  ascended  an  eminence,  waved  his  wings,  sprang  into  the 
air.  and  instantly  dropped  into  the  lake.  But  it  is  added  that  the  wings 
which  were  unable  to  support  him  through  the  sky,  bore  him  up  efie3- 
tually  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  water.  This  is  no  bad  type  of  the  fate 
of  Charles  Montagu,  and  of  men  like  him.  "When  he  attempted  to  soar 
into  the  regions  of  poetical  invention,  he  altogether  failed ;  but  as  soon 
as  he  had  descended  from  his  ethereal  elevation  into  a  lower  and  grosser 
element,  his  talents  instantly  raised  him  above  the  mass.     He  became  a 

«-  distinguished  financier,  debater,  courtier,  and  party  leader.  He  still  re- 
tained his  fondness  for  the  pursuits  of  his  early  days ;  but  he  showed 
that  fondness,  not  by  wearying  the  public  with  his  own  feeble  perform- 
ances, but  by  discovering  and  encouraging  literary  excellence  in  others. 
A  crowd  of  wits  and  poets,  who  would  easily  have  vanquished  him  as  a 

*  competitor,  revered  him  as  a  judge  and  a  patron.  In  his  plans  for  the 
encouragement  of  learning,  he  was  cordially  supported  by  the  ablest  and 

*  most  virtuous  of  his  colleagues,  the  lord  keeper  Somers.  Though  both 
these  great  statesmen  had  a  sincere  love  of  letters,  it  was  not  solely  from 
a  love  of  letters  that  they  were  desirous  to  enlist  youths  of  high  intel- 
lectual qualifications  in  the  public  service.  The  Revolution  had  altered 
the  whole  system  of  government.  Before  that  event,  the  press  had  been 
controlled  by  censors,  and  the  Parliament  had  sat  only  two  months  in 
eight  years.  Now  the  press  was  free,  and  had  begun  to  exercise  unpre- 
cedented influence  on  the  public  mind.  Parliament  met  annually  and 
sat  long.  The  chief  power  in  the  state  had  passed  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. At  such  a  conjuncture,  it  was  natural  that  literary  and  oratori- 
cal, talents  should  rise  in  value.  There  was  danger  that  a  government 
which  neglected  such  talents  might  be  subverted  by  them.     It  was, 

f  therefore,  a  profound  and  enlightened  policy  which  led  Alontagu  and 

Somers  to  attach  such  talents  to  the  whig  party,  by  the  strongest  ties 
'   both  of  interest  and  of  grartitude. 

It  is  remarkable  that,  in  a  neighboring  country,  we  have  recently 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXlll 

seen  similar  effects  from  similar  causes.     The  Revolution  of  July,  1830, 

established  representative  government  in  France.  The  men  of  letters 
instantly  rose  to  the  highest  importance  in  the  state.  At  the  present 
moment,  most  of  the  persons  whom  we  see  at  the  head  both  of  the 
administration  and  of  the  opposition  have  been  professors,  historians, 
journalists,  poets.  The  influence  of  the  literary  class  in  England,  du- 
ring the  generation  which  followed  the  Revolution  was  great,  but  by  no 
means  so  great  as  it  has  lately  been  in  France.  For,  in  England,  the 
aristocracy  of  intellect  had  to  contend  with  a  powerful  and  deeply  rooted 
aristocracy  of  a  very  different  kind.  France  had  no  Somersets  and 
Shrewsburies  to  keep  down  her  Addisons  and  Priors. 

It  was  in  the  year  1G99,  when  Addison  had  just  completed  his 
twenty-seventh  year,  that  the  course  of-  his  life  was  finally  determined. 
Both  the  great  chiefs  of  the  ministry  were  kindly  disposed  towards  him. 
In  political  opinions  he  already  was,  what  he  continued  to  be  through  * 
life,  a  firm,  though  moderate  whig.  He  had  addressed  the  most  polished 
and  vigorous  of  his  early  English  lines  to  Somers  ;  and  had  dedicated 
to  Montagu  a  Latin  poem,  truly  Virgilian,  both  in  style  and  rhyme,  on  • 
the  peac3  of  Ryswick.  The  wish  of  the  young  poet's  great  friends  was, 
it  should  seem,  to  employ  him  in  the  service  of  the  crown  abroad.  But 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  French  language  was  a  qualification  indis- 
pensable to  a  diplomatist ;  and  this  qualification  Addison  had  not  ac- 
quired. It  was,  therefore,  thought  desirable  that  he  should  pass  some 
time  on  the  Continent  in  preparing  himself  for  official  employment. 
His  own  means  were  not  such  as  would  enable  him  to  travel ;  but  a 
pension  of  £300  a  year  was  procured  for  him  by  the  interest  of  the  lord  - 
keeper.  It  seems  to  have  been  apprehended  that  some  difiiculty  might 
be  started  by  the  rulers  of  Magdalene  College.  But  the  chancellor  of 
the  exchequer  wrote  in  the  strongest  terms  to  Hough.  The  state — such 
was  the  purport  of  Montagu's  letter — could  not,  at  that  time,  spare  to 
the  church  such  a  man  as  Addison.  Too  many  high  posts  were  already 
occupied  by  adventurers,,  who,  destitute  of  every  liberal  art  and  senti- 
ment, at  once  pillaged  and  disgraced  the  country  which  they  pretended 
to  serve.  It  had  become  necessary  to  recruit  for  the  public  service 
from  a  very  different  class,  from  that  class  of  which  Addison  was  the 
representative.  The  close  of  the  minister's  letter  was  remarkable.  "  I 
am  called,"  he  said,  "  an  enemy  of  the  church.  But  I  will  never  do  it 
any  other  injury  than  keeping  Mr.  Addison  out  of  it." 

This  interference  was  successful ;  and  in  the  summer  of  1G99,  Addi 
son,  made  a  rich  man  by  his  pension,  and  still  retaining  his  fellowship, 
quitted  his  beloved  Oxford,  and  set  out  on  his  travels.     He  crossed  from 


} 


XXIV  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS     OF      ADDISON. 

Dover  to  Calais,  proceeded  to  Paris,  and  was  received  there  with  great 
kindness  and  politeness  by  a  kinsman  of  his  friend  Montagu,  Charles 
Earl  of  Manchester,  who  had  just  been  appointed  ambassador  to  tlie 
court  of  France.  The  countess,  a  whig  and  a  toast,  was  probably  as 
gracious  as  her  lord ;  for  Addison  long  retained  an  agreeable  recollec- 
tion of  the  impression  which  she  at  this  time  made  on  him,  and,  in  some 
lively  lines  written  on  the  glasses  of  the  Kit-Cat  club,  described  the 
envy  which  her  cheeks,  glowing  with  the  genuine  bloom  of  England, 
had  excited  among  the  painted  beauties  of  Versailles. 

Louis  XIY.  was  at  this  time  expiating  the  vices  of  his  youth  by  a 
devotion  which  had  no  root  in  reason,  and  bore  no  fruit  in  charity. 
The  servile  literature  of  France  had  changed  its  character  to  suit  the 
changed  character  of  the  prince.  No  book  appeared  that  had  not  an  air 
of  sanctity.  Racine,  who  was  just  dead,  had  passed  the  close  of  his  life 
in  writing  sacred  dramas;  and  Dacier  was  seeking  for  the  Athanasian 

■L  mysteries  of  Plato.  Addison  described  this  state  of  things  in  a  short 
but  lively  and  graceful  letter  to  Montagu.  Another  letter,  written 
about  the  same  time  to  the  lord  keeper,  conveyed  the  strongest  assur- 
ances of  gratitude  and  attachment.  "  The  only  return  I  can  make  to 
your  lordship,"  said  Addison,  "  will  be  to  apply  myself  entirely  to  my 
business."  With  this  view  he  quitted  Paris  and  repaired  to  Blois  ;  a 
place  where  it  was  supposed  that  the  French  language  was  spoken  in  its 
highest  purity,  and  where  not  a  single  Englishman  could  be  found. 
Here  he  passed  some  months  pleasantly  and  profitably.  Of  his  way  of 
life  at  Blois,  one  of  his  associates,  an  abb6  named  Philippeaux,  gave  an 
account  to  Joseph  Spence.  If  this  account  is  to  be  trusted,  Addison 
studied  much,  mused  much,  talked  little,  had  fits  of  absence,  and  either 
had  no  love  affairs,  or  was  too  discreet  to  confide  them  to  the  abbe.  A 
man  who,  even  when  surrounded  by  fellow-countrymen  and  fellow- 
students,  had  always  been  remarkably  shy  and  silent,  was  not  likely  to 
be  loquacious  in  a  foreign  tongue,  and  among  foreign  companions.  But 
it  is  clear  from  Addison's  letters,  some  of  which  were  long  after  pub- 
lished in  the  "  Guardian,"  that  while  he  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  his 

?  own  meditations,  he  was  really  observing  French  society  with  that 
keen  and  sly,  yet  not  ill-natured  side-glance  which  was  pccuharly  his 
own. 

From  Blois  he  returned  to  Paris ;  and  having  now  mastered  the 

;  French  language,  found  great  pleasure  in  the  society  of  French  philoso- 
phers and  poets.  He  gave  an  account,  in  a  letter  to  Bishop  Hough,  of 
two  highly  interesting  conversations,  one  with  Malebranche,  the  other 
with  Boileau.    Malebranche  expressed  great  partiality  for  the  English, 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS     OF      ADDISON.  XXT 

and  extolled  tlie  genius  of  Newton,  but  shook  his  head  when  Hobbea 
was  mentioned,  and  was  indeed  so  unjust  as  to  call  the  author  of  the 
''  Leviathan  "  a  poor  silly  creature.  Addison's  modesty  restrained  liim 
from  fully  relating,  in  his  letter,  the  circumstances  of  his  introduction 
to  Boileau.  Boileau,  having  survived  the  friends  and  rivals  of  his 
youth,  old,  deaf,  and  melancholy,  lived  in  retirement,  seldom  went  either 
to  court  or  to  the  academy,  and  was  almost  inaccessible  to  strangers. 
Of  the  English  .and  of  English  literature  he  knew  nothing.  He  had 
hardly  heard  the  name  of  Dryden.  Some  of  our  countrymen,  in  the 
warmth  of  their  patriotism,  have  asserted  that  this  ignorance  must  have 
been  affected.  We  own  that  we  see  no  ground  for  such  a  supposition. 
Jlnglish  literature  was  to  the  French  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  what 
German  literature  was  to  our  own  grandfathers.  Very  few,  we  sus 
pect,  of  the  accomplished  men  who,  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  used  to 
dine  in  Leicester  Squar©  with  Sir  Joshua,  or  at  Streatham  with  JNIrs. 
Thrale,  had  the  slightest  jsrotion  that  Wieland  was  one  of  the  first  wits 
and  poets,  and  Lessing,  beyond  all  dispute,  the  first  critic  in  Europe. 
Boileau  knew  just  as  little  about  the  "Paradise  Lost,"  and  about 
'•  Absalom  and  Ahitophel ; "  but  he  had  read  Addison's  Latin  poems, 
and  admired  them  greatly.  Thej  had  given  him,  he  said,  quite  a  new 
notion  of  the  state  of  learning  and  taste  among  the  English.  Johnson 
will  have  it  that  these  praises  wer3  insincere.  "  Nothing,"  says  he, 
"  is  better  known  of  Boileau  than  that  he  had  an  injudicious  and  peev- 
ish contempt  of  modem  Latin  ;  and  therefore  his  profession  of  regard 
was  probably  the  effect  of  his  civility  ratfeer  than  approbation."  Now, 
nothing  is  better  known  of  Boileau  than  that  he  was  singularly  sparing 
of  compliments.  We  do  not  remember  that  either  friendship  or  fear 
ever  induced  him  to  bestow  praise  on  any  composition  which  he  did  not 
approve.  On  literary  questions,  his  caustic,  disdainful,  and  self-confi- 
dent spirit  rebelled  against  that  authority  to  which  every  thing  else  in 
France  bowed  down.  He  had  the  spirit  to  tell  Louis  XIV.  firmly,  and 
even  rudely,  that  his  majesty  knew  nothing  about  poetry,  and  admired 
verses  which  were  detestable.  What  was  there  in  Addison's  position 
that  could  induce  the  satirist,  whose  stern  and  fastidious  temper  had 
been  the  dread  of  two  generations,  to  turn  sycophant  for  the  first  and 
last  time  ?  Nor  was  Boileau's  contempt  of  modern  Latin  either  injudi- 
cious or  peevish.  He  thought,  indeed,  that  no  poem  of  the  first  order 
would  ever  be  written  in  a  dead  language.  And  did  he  think  amiss  ? 
Has  not  the  experience  of  centuries  confirmed  his  opinion  ?  Boileau 
also  thought  it  probable  that,  in  the  best  modern  Latin,  a  writer  of  the 
Augustan  age  would  have  detected  ludicrous  improprieties.    And  who 


XXVI  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

can  think  otherwise  ?  What  modern  scholar  can  honestly  declare  thai 
he  sees  the  smallest  impurity  in  the  style  of  Livy  ?  Yet  is  it  not  cer- 
tain that,  in  the  style  of  Livy,  Pollio,  whose  taste  had  been  formed  on 
the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  detected  the  inelegant  idiom  of  the  Po  ?  *  Has 
any  modern  scholar  understood  Latin  better  than  Frederick  the  Great 
un-derstood  French?  Yet  is  it  not  notorious  that  Frederick  the  Great 
after  reading,  speaking,  writing  French,  and  nothing  but  French,  during 
more  than  half  a  century — after  unlearning  his  mother  tongue  in  order 
to  learn  French,  after  living  familiarly  during  many  years  with  French 
associates — could  not,  to  the  last,  compose  in  French,  without  imminent 
risk  of  committing  some  mistake  which  would  have  moved  a  smile  in 
the  literary  circles  of  Paris  ?  Do  we  believe  that  Erasmus  and  Fracas- 
torius  wrote  Latin  as  well  as  Dr.  Kobertson  and  Sir  Walter  Scott 
wrote  English  ?  And  are  there  not  in  the  Dissertation  on  India  (the 
last  of  Dr.  Robertson's  works),  in  Waverley,  in  Marmion,  Scotticisms 
at  which  a  London  apprentice  would  laugh  ?  But  does  it  follow,  be- 
cause we  think  thus,  that  we  can  find  nothing  to  admire  in  the  noble 
alcaics  of  Gray,  or  in  the  playful  elegiacs  of  Vincent  Bourne?  Surely 
not.  Nor  was  Boileau  so  ignorant  or  tasteless  as  to  be  incapable  of 
appreciating  good  modern  Latin.  In  the  very  letter  to  which  Johnson 
alludes,  Boileau  says — "  Ne  croyez  pas  pourtant  que  je  veuille  par  la 
blamer  les  vers  Latins,  que  vous  m'avez  envoyes  d'un  de  vos  illustres 
academiciens.     Je  les  ai  trouves  fort  beaux,  et  dignes  de  Vida  et  de 

4  Et  in  Tito  Livio  mirse  facundiaa  viro  putet  inesse  Pollio  Asinius  qimndam  Patavlnitatem.— 
Quint.  L.  vlii.,  c.  1.  But  Pollio  was  known  ratlicr  as  a  captious  than  a  just  critic,  and  failed 
Badly  in  his  own  attempt  to  write  history.    Horace  says,  it  is  true,  in  one  of  his  finest  odes, 

Jiim  nuncmiiiaci  murinure  cornuum 
Perstriiigis  aures,  &c.  —  C'arw.  L.  11,  c.  1. 

But  Pollio  was  a  patron,  and  his  work  not  yet  published.  If,  liowever,  the  rule  hold  good, 
we  should  have  very  little  genuine  Roman  Latin  to  go  by.  Virgil  was  born  at  Mantua,  not 
very  far  from  Padua.  Cornelius  Nepos,  near  Verona.  Sallust  was  a  Sabine.  Neither  Cice- 
ro, nor  Horace,  nor  indeed  scarcely  any  of  the  most  eminent  Roman  writers,  were  natives 
of  Rome,  and  yet  they  all  escaped  the  charge  of  provincialism.  Fleury,  in  his  excellent 
"Traite  des  li^tudcs,"  takes  very  nearly  the  same  ground  with  Macaulay.  Gibbon  compLa- 
cently  hesitates  in  speaking  of  his  own  French  (V,  G.  Mem.,  p.  59),  though  his  English  is  one 
of  the  strongest  illustrations  of  the  principle.  Erasmus  and  Fracastorius,  when  they  read 
Latin,  read  classic  Latin.  Robertson  and  Scott  passed  all  their  lives  hearing  and  using  Scot- 
ticisms in  their  daily  intercourse.  In  these  cases,  therefore,  tlie  psirallel  liardly  holds  good. 
Italian  literature  furnishes  instances  fur  both  sides.  None  of  the  greater  poets  but  Duute 
and  Petrarch  wwe  native  Tuscans,  and  Petrarch  went  to  France  at  nine ;  yet  Ariosto  and 
Tasso  are  now  cited  by  the  Crnsca.  Then  again  Alfleri,  in  liis  prose  could  not  always  forget 
his  French  education ;  yet  Botta,  born  and  educated  in  Piedmont,  and  living  in  Paris, 
wrote  the  purest  Italian  of  the  age,  unless  wo  should  except  Cesari,  Giordani,  and  Colombo, 
none  of  whom  were  Tuscans.  Arguing  by  examples,  therefore,  wo  should  say,  Difficile  si,  ma 
non  impossibile. — Q. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXYH 

Sannazar,  mais  non  pas  d'Horace  et  de  Virgile."  Several  poems,  in 
modern  Latin,  have  been  praised  by  Boileau  quite  as  liberally  as  it  was 
his  habit  to  praise  any  thing.  He  says,  for  example,  of  Pere  Fraguier's 
epigrams,  that  Catullus  seems  to  have  come  to  life  again.  But  the  best 
proof  that  Boileau  did  not  feel  the  undiscerning  contempt  for  modern 
Latin  verses  which  has  been  imputed  to  him,  is,  that  he  wrote  ?nd  pub- 
ished  Latin  verses  in  several  metres.  Indeed,  it  happens,  curiously 
enough,  that  the  most  severe  censure  ever  pronounced  by  him  on  modern 
Latin,  is  conveyed  in  Latin  hexameters.  We  allude  to  the  fragment 
which  begins — 

"  Quid  numeris  iterum  me  balbiitire  Latinis, 
Longe  Alpes  citra  natum  de  patre  Sicambro, 
Musa,  jiibes?" 

For  these  reasons  we  feel  assured  that  the  praise  which  Boileau 
bestowed  on  the  MachincB  Gesticulantes^  and  the  Gerano-PygmfEO- 
machia,  was  sincere.  lie  certainly  opened  himself  to  Addison  with  a 
freedom  which  was  a  sure  indication  of  esteem.  Literature  was  the 
chief  subject  of  conversation.  The  old  man  talked  on  his  favorite 
theme  much  and  well ;  indeed,  as  his  young  hearer  thought,  incompara- 
bly well.  EgUo^  had  undoubtedly  some  of  the  qualities  of  a  great 
critic.  He  wanted  imagination;  but  he  had  strong  sense.  His  literary 
code  was  formed  on  narrow  principles ;  but  in  applying  it,  he  showed 
great  judgment  and  penetration.  In  mere  style,  abstracted  from  ^e 
ideas  of  which  style  is  the  garb,  his  taste  was  excellent.  He^was  well 
acquainted  with  the  great  Greek  writers ;  and,  though  unable  fully  to 
appreciate  their  creative  genius,  admired  the  majestic  simplicity  of  their 
manner,  and  had  learned  from  them  to  despise  bombast  and  tinsel.  It 
is  easy,  we  think,  to  discover,  in  the  "  Spectator  "  and  the  "  Guardian," 
traces  of  the  influence,  in  part  salutary  and  in  part  pernicious,  which 
ihe  mind  of  Boileau  had  on  the  mind  of  Addison. 

While  Addison  was  at  Paris,  an  event  took  place  which  made  that 
capital  a  disagreeable  residence  for  an  Englishman  and  a  whig.  Charles, 
second  of  the  name.  King  of  Spain,  died ;  and  bequeathed  his  dominions 
to  Philip,  Duke  of  Anjou,  a  younger  son  of  the  dauphin.  The  King  of 
France,  in  direct  violation  of  his  engagements  both  with  Great  Britain 
and  with  the  states-general,  accepted  the  bequest  on  behalf  of  his 
grandson.  The  house  of  Bourbon  was  at  the  summit  of  human  gran- 
deur. England  had  been  outwitted,  and  found  herself  in  a  situation  at 
once  degrading  and  perilous.  The  people  of  France,  not  presaging  the 
ilamities  by  which  they  were  destined  to  expiate  the  perfidy  of  their 
sovereign,  went  mad  with-pride  and  delight.     Every  man  looked  as  if  a 


d 


XXVlll  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

great  estate  had  just  been  left  him.  "  The  French  conversation,"  said 
Addison,  "  begins  to  grow  insupportable ;  that  which  was  before  the 
vainest  nation  in  the  world,  is  now  worse  than  ever."  Sick  of  the 
arrogant  exultation  of  the  Parisians,  and  probably  foreseeing  that  the 
peace  between  France  and  England  could  not  be  of  long  duration,  he 
set  off  for  Italy. 

In  December,  1700,  he  embarked  at  Marseilles.  As  he  glided 
along  the  Ligurian  coast,  he  was  delighted  by  the  sight  of  myrtles  and 
olive-trees,  which  retained  their  verdure  under  the  winter  solstice. 
Soon,  however,  he  encountered  one  of  the  black  storms  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  captain  of  the  sliip  gave  up  all  for  lost,  and  confessed 
himself  to  a  capucliin  who  happened  to  be  on  board.  The  English 
heretic,  in  the  mean  time,  fortified  himself  against  the  terrors  of  death 
with  devotions  of  a  very  different  kind.  How  strong  an  impression 
this  perilous  voyage  made  on  him,  appears  from  the  ode — "  How  are  thy 
servants  blest,  0  Lord !  "  which  was  long  after  published  in  the  Specta- 
tor. After  some  days  of  discomfort  and  danger,  Addison  was  glad  to 
land  at  Savona,  and  to  make  his  way,  over  mountains  where  no  road 
had  yet  been  hewn  out  by  art,  to  the  city  of  Genoa. 

At  Genoa,  still  ruled  by  her  own  doge,  and  by  the  nobles  whose 
names  were  inscribed  on  her  book  of  gold,  Addison  made  a  short  stay. 
He  admired  the  narrow  streets  overhung  by  long  lines  of  towering 
palaces,  the  walls  rich  with  frescoes,  the  gorgeous  temple  of  the  Annun- 
ciation, and  the  tapestries  whereon  were  recorded  the  long  glories  of 
the  house  of  Doria.  Thence  he  hastened  to  Milan,  where  he  contem- 
plated the  Gothic  magnificence  of  the  cathedral  with  more  wonder  than 
pleasure.  He  passed  lake  Benacus  while  a  gale  was  blowing,  and  saw 
the  waves  raging  as  they  raged  when  Virgil  looked  upon  them.  At 
Venice,  then  the  gayest  spot  in  Europe,  the  traveller  spent  the  carnival, 
the  gayest  season  of  the  year,  in  the  midst  of  masques,  dances,  and 
serenades.  Here  he  was  at  once  diverted  and  provoked  by  the  absurd 
dramatic  pieces  which  then  disgraced  the  Italian  stage.  To  one  of  those 
pieces,  however,  he  was  indebted  for  a  valuable  hint.  He  was  present 
when  a  ridiculous  play  on  the  death  of  Cato  was  performed.  C'ato,^  it 
seems,  was  in  love  with  a  daughter  of  Scipio.  The  lady  had  giv.'^n  her 
heart  to  Caesar.  The  rejected  lover  determined  to  destroy  h'mself 
He  appeared  seated  in  his  library,  a  dagger  in  his  hand,  a  Plutarch  inv} 
a  Tasso  before  him ;  and  in  this  position  he  pronounced  a  soJ  'loquy 
before  lie  struck  the  blow.  We  are  surprised  that  so  remarkable  a 
circumstance  as  this  should  have  escaped  the  notice  of  all  Addison's 
biographers.     There  cannot,  we  conceive,  be  the  smallest  douVt  that 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXIX 

Lhia  scene,  in  spite  of  its  absurdities  and  anachronisms,  struck  the  tra- 
7eller's  imagination,  and  suggested  to  him  the  thought  of  bringing  Cato 
on  the  English  stage.  It  is  well  known  that  about  this  time  he  began 
his  tragedy,  and  that  he  finished  the  first  four  acts  before  he  returned 
to  England. 

On  his  way  from  Venice  to  Eome,  he  was  drawn  some  miles  out  of 
the  beaten  road,  by  a  wish  to  see  the  smallest  independent  state  in 
Europe.  On  a  rock  where  the  snow  still  lay,  though  the  Italian  spring 
was  now  far  advanced,  was  perched  the  little  fortress  of  San  Marino. 
The  roads  which  led  to  the  secluded  town  were  so  bad  that  few  travel- 
lers had  ever  visited  it,  and  none  had  ever  published  an  account  of  it. 
Addison  could  not  suppress  a  good-natured  smile  at  the  simple  manners 
and  institutions  of  this  singular  community.  But  he  observed,  with 
the  exultation  of  a  whig,  that  the  rude  mountain  tract  which  formed 
the  territory  of  the  republic,  swarmed  with  an  honest,  healthy,  con- 
tented peasantry  :  while  the  rich  plain  which  surrounded  the  metropolis 
of  civil  and  spiritual  tyranny  was  scarcely  less  desolate  than  the  un- 
cleared wilds  of  America. 

At  Rome,  Addison  remained  on  his  first  visit  only  long  enough  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  St.  Peter's,  and  of  the  Pantheon.  His  haste  is  the 
more  extraordinary,  because  the  holy  week  was  close  at  hand.  He  has 
given  us  no  hint  which  can  enable  us  to  pronounce  why  he  chose 
to  fl}'-  from  a  spectacle  which  every  year  allures  from  distant  regions 
persons  of  far  less  taste  and  sensibiHty  than  his.  Possibly,  travelling, 
as  he  did,  at  the  charge  of  a  government  distinguished  by  its  enmity  to 
the  Church  of  Rome,  he  may  have  thought  that  it  would  be  imprudent 
in  him  to  assist  at  the  most  magnificent  rite  of  that  church.  Many  eyes 
would  be  upon  him ;  and  he  might  find  it  diflBcult  to  behave  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  give  offence  neither  to  his  patrons  in  England,  nor  to 
those  among  whom  he  resided.  Whatever  his  motives  may  have  been, 
he  turned  his  back  on  the  most  august  and  affecting  ceremony  which  is 
known  among  men,  and  posted  along  the  Appian  way  to  Naples. 

Naples  was  then  destitute  of  what  are  now,  perhaps,  its  chief  attrac- 
tions. The  lovely  bay  and  the  awful  mountain  were  indeed  there.  But 
a  farm-house  stood  on  the  theatre  of  Herculaneum,  and  rows  of  vines 
grew  over  the  streets  of  Pompeii.  The  temples  of  Paestum  had  not 
indeed  been  hidden  from  the  eye  of  man  by  any  great  convulsion  of 
nature  ;  but,  strange  to  say,  their  existence  was  a  secret  even  to  artists 
and  antiquaries.  Though  situated*  within  a  few  hours'  journey  of  a  great 
capital,  where  Salvator  had  not  long  before  painted,  and  where  Vico  was 
then  lecturing,  those  noble  rema-ns  were  as  little  known  to  Europe  as 


XXX  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

the  ruined  cities  overgrown  by  the  forests  of  Yucatan.  What  was  to  be 
seen  at  Naples,  Addison  saw.  He  climbed  Vesuvius,  explored  the  tun- 
nel of  Posilipo,  and  wandered  among  the  vines  and  almond-trees  of 
Caprea).  But  neither  the  wonders  of  nature  nor  those  of  art  could  so 
occupy  his  attention  as  to  prevent  him  from  noticing,  though  cursorily, 
*  the  abuses  of  the  government  and  the  misery  of  the  people.  The  great 
kingdom  which  had  just  descended  to  Philip  V.  was  in  a  state  of  para 
lytic  dotage.  Even  Castile  and  Arragon  were  sunk  in  wretchedness. 
Yet,  compared  with  the  Italian  dependencies  of  the  Spanish  crown, 
Castile  and  Arragon  might  be  called  prosperous.  It  is  clear  that  all 
the  observations  which  Addison  made  in  Italy  tended  to  confirm  him  in 
the  pohtical  opinions  which  he  had  adopted  at  home.  To  the  last  he 
always  spoke  of  foreign  travel  as  the  best  cure  for  Jacobitism.  In  his 
Freeholder,  the  tory  foxhunter  asks  what  travelling  is  good  for,  except 
to  teach  a  man  to  jabber  French,  and  to  talk  against  passive  obedience. 

From  Naples  Addison  returned  to  Rome  by  sea,  along  the  coast 
which  his  favorite  Virgil  had  celebrated.  The  felucca  passed  the  head- 
land where  the  oar  and  trumpet  were  placed  by  the  Trojan  adven- 
turers on  the  tomb  of  Misenus,  and  anchored  at  night  under  the  shelter 
of  the  fiblcd  promontory  of  Circe.  Th©  voyage  ended  in  the  Tiber,  still 
overhung  with  dark  verdure,  and  still  turbid  with  yellow  sand,  as  when 
it  met  the  eyes  of  iEneas.  From  the  ruined  port  of  Ostia,  the  stranger 
hurried  to  Rome  ;  and  at  Rome  he  remained  during  those  hot  and  sickly 
months  when,  even  in  the  Augustan  age,  all  who  could  make  their 
escape  fled  from  mad  dogs  and  from  streets  black  with  funerals,  to 
gather  the  first  figs  of  the  season  in  the  country.  It  is  probable  that 
when  he,  long  after,  poured  forth  in  verse  his  gratitude  to  the  Provi- 
dence which  had  enabled  him  to  breathe  unhurt  in  tainted  air,  he  was 
thinking  of  the  August  and  September  which  he  passed  at  Rome. 

It  was  not  till  the  latter  end  of  October  that  he  tore  himself  away 
from  the  masterpieces  of  ancient  and  modern  art,  which  are  collected  in 
the  city  so  long  the  mistress  of  the  world.  He  then  journeyed  northward, 
passed  through  Sienna,  and  for  a  moment  forgot  his  prejudices  in  favor 
of  classic  architecture  as  he  looked  on  the  magnificent  cathedral.  At 
Florence  he  spent  some  days  with  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  who.  cloyed 
with  the  pleasures  of  ambition,  and  impatient  of  its  pains,  fearing  both 
parties,  and  loving  neither,  had  determined  to  hide  in  an  Italian  retreat 
talents  and  accomplishments  which,  if  they  had  been  united  with  fixed 
principles  and  civil  courage,  might  have  made  him  the  foremost  man  of  his 
age.  These  days,  we  are  told,  passed  pleasantly ;  and  we  can  easily  believe 
it.   For  A  ddison  was  a  delightful  companion  when  he  was  at  his  ease ;  and 


LIFE      AN»      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXXI 

the  duke,  though  he  seldom  forgot  that  he  was  a  Talbot,  had  the  invalu- 
able art  of  putting  at  ease  all  who  came  near  him. 

Addison  gave  some  time  to  Florence,  and  especially  to  the  sculptures 
in  the  Museum,  which  he  preferred  even  to  those  of  the  Vatican.  He 
then  pursued  his  journey  through  a  country  in  which  the  ravages  of 
the  last  war  were  still  discernible,  and  in  which  all  men  were  looking 
forward  with  dread  to  a  still  fiercer  conflict.  Eugene  had  already  de- 
scended from  the  Rhtetian  Alps,  to  dispute  with  Catinat  the  rich  plain 
of  Lombardy.  The  faithless  ruler  of  Savoy  was  still  reckoned  among 
the  allies  of  Louis.  England  had  not  yet  actually  declared  war  against 
France.  But  Manchester  had  left  Paris  ;  and  the  negotiations  which 
produced  the  grand  alliance  against  the  house  of  Bourbon  were  in  pro- 
gress. Under  such  circumstances,  it  was  desirable  for  an  English 
traveller  to  reach  neutral  ground  Mathout  delay.  Addison  resolved  to 
cross  Mont  Cenis.  It  was  December ;  and  the  road  was  very  different 
from  that  which  now  reminds  the  stranger  of  the  power  and  genius  of 
Napoleon.  The  winter,  however,  was  mild,  and  the  passage  was,  for 
those  times,  easy.  To  this  journey  Addison  alluded,  when,  in  the  ode 
which  we  have  already  quoted,  he  sai(i,that  for  him  the  divine  goodness 
had  "  warmed  the  hoary  Alpine  hills." 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  eternal  snow  that  he  composed  his  Epistle 
to  his  friend  Montagu,  now  Lord  Halifax.  That  Epistle,  once  widely 
renowned,  is  now  known  only  to  curious  readers ;  and  will  hardly  be 
considered  by  those  to  whom  it  is  known  as  in  any  perceptible  degree 
heightening  Addison's  fame.  It  is.  however,  decidedly  superior  to  any 
English  composition  which  he  had  previously  published.  Nay,  we  think 
it  quite  as  good  as  any  poem  in  heroic  metre  which  appeared  during  the 
interval  between  the  death  of  Dryden  and  the  publication  of  the  "  Essay 
on  Criticism."  It  contains  passages  as  good  as  the  second-rate  passages 
of  Pope,  and  would  have  added  to  the  reputation  of  Parnell  or  Prior. 

But,  whatever  be  the  literary  merits  or  defects  of  the  Epistle,  it  un- 
doubtedly does  honor  to  the  principles  and  spirit  of  the  author.  Hali- 
fax had  now  nothing  to  give.  He  had  fallen  from  power,  had  been  held 
up  to  obloquy,  had  been  impeached  by  the  House  of  Commons ;  and, 
though  his  peers  had  dismissed  the  impeachment,  had.  as  it  seemed, 
little  chance  of  ever  again  filling  high  office.  The  Epistle,  written  at 
such  a  time,  is  one  among  many  proofs  that  there  was  no  mixture  of 
cowardice  or  meanness  in  the  suavity  and  moderation  which  distin- 
guished Addison  from  all  the  other  public  men  of  those  stormy  times. 

At  Geneva,  the  traveller  learned  that  a  partial  change  of  ministry 
had  taken  place  in  England,  and  that  the  Earl  of  Manchester  had  be- 


XXXll  IIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OT      ADDISON. 

come  secretary  of  state.  Manchester  exerted  himself  to  serve  his  yo ang 
friend.  It  was  thought  advisable  that  an  English  agent  should  be  near 
the  person  of  Eugene  in  Italy  ;  and  Addison,  whose  diplomatic  education 
was  now  finished,  was  the  man  selected.  He  was  preparing  to  enter  on 
his  honorable  functions,  when  all  his  prospects  were  for  a  time  dark- 
ened by  the  death  of  AVilliam  III. 

Anne  had  long  felt  a  strong  aversion,  personal,  political,  and  reli- 
gious, to  the  whig  party.  That  aversion  appeared  in  the  first  measures 
of  her  reign.  Manchester  was  deprived  of  the  seals  after  he  had  held 
them  only  a  few  weeks.  Neither  Somers  nor  Halifax  was  sworn  of  the 
Privy  Council.  Addison  shared  the  fate  of  his  three  patrons.  His  hopes 
of  employment  in  the  public  service  were  at  an  end ;  his  pension  was 
stopped ;  and  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  support  himself  by  his  own 
exertions.  He  became  tutor  to  a  young  English  traveller ;  and  appears 
to  have  rambled  with  his  pupil  over  great  part  of  Switzerland  and 
Germany.  At  this  time  he  wrote  his  pleasing  treatise  on  "  Medals." 
It  was  not  published  till  after  his  death  ;  but  several  distinguished 
scholars  saw  the  manuscript,  and  gave  just  praise  to  the  grace  of  the 
style,  and  to  the  learnmg  and  ingenuity  evinced  by  the  quotations. 

From  Germany,  Addison  repaired  to  Holland,  where  he  learned  the 
news  of  his  father's  death.  After  passing  some  months  in  the  United 
Provinces,  he  returned  about  the  close  of  the  year  1703  to  England.  He 
was  there  cordially  received  by  his  friends,  and  introduced  by  them  into 
the  Kit-Cat  Club — a  society  in  which  were  collected  all  the  various 
talents  and  accomplishments  which  then  gave  lustre  to  the  whig  part}-. 

Addison  was,  during  some  months  after  his  return  from  the  Conti- 
nent, hard  pressed  by  pecuniary  difficulties.  But  it  was  soon  in  the 
power  of  his  noble  patrons  to  serve  him  effectually.  A  political  change, 
silent  and  gradual,  but  of  the  highest  importance,  was  in  daily  progress. 
The  accession  of  Anne  had  been  hailed  by  the  torics  with  transports  of 
joy  and  hope  j  and  for  a  time  it  seemed  that  the  whigs  had  fallen  never 
to  rise  again.  The  throne  was  surrounded  by  men  supposed  to  be  at- 
tached to  the  prerogative  and  to  tlie  church ;  and  among  these  none 
stood  so  high  in  the  favor  of  the  sovereign  as  the  lord-treasurer  Godol- 
phin  and  the  captain-general  Marlborough. 

The  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergymen  had  fully  expected 
that  the  policy  of  these  ministers  would  be  directly  opposed  to  that 
which  had  been  almost  constantly  followed  by  William ;  that  the  landed 
interest  would  be  favored  at  the  expense  of  trade ;  that  no  addition 
would  be  made  to  the  funded  debt ;  that  the  privileges  conceded  to 
dissenters  by  the  late  king  would  be  curtailed,  if  not  withdrawn ;  that 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXXIll 

the  war  with  France,  if  there  must  be  such  a  war,  would,  on  our  part, 
be  almost  entirely  naval ;  and  that  the  government  would  avoid  close 
connections  with  foreign  powers,  and,  above  all,  with  Holland. 

But  the  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergymen  were  fated  to  be 
deceived,  not  for  the  last  time.  The  prejudices  and  passions  which  raged 
without  control  in  vicarages,  in  cathedral  closes,  and  in  the  manor-houses 
of  fox-hunting  squires,  were  not  shared  by  the  chiefs  of  the  ministry. 
Those  statesmen  saw  that  it  was  both  for  the  public  interest,  and  for 
their  own  interest,  to  adopt  a  whig  policy ;  at  least  as  respected  the  alli- 
ances of  the  country  and  the  conduct  of  the  war.  But  if  the  foreign 
policy  of  the  whigs  were  adopted,  it  was  impossible  to  abstain  from 
adopting  also  their  financial  policy.  The  natural  consequences  followed. 
The  rigid  tories  were  alienated  from  the  government.  The  votes  of  the 
whigs  became  necessary  to  it.  The  votes  of  the  whigs  could  be  secured 
only  by  further  concessions  j  and  further  concessions  the  queen  was  in* 
duced  to  make. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1704,  the  state  of  parties  bore  a  close 
analogy  to  the  state  of  parties  in  1826.     In  1826,  as  in  1704,  there  was 
a  tory  ministry  divided  into  two  hostile  sections.     The  position  of  Mr. 
Canning  and  his  friends  in  1826  corresponded  to  that  which  Marlbo- 
rough and  Godolphin  occupied  in  1704.     Nottingham  and  Jersey  were, 
in  1704,  what  Lord  Eldon  and  Lord  Westmoreland  were  in  1826.     The 
whigs  of  1704  were  in  a  situation  resembling  that  in  which  the  whigs 
of  1826  stood.     In  1704,  Somers,  Halifax,  Sunderland,  Cowper,  were 
not  in  office.     There  was  no  avowed  coalition  between  them  and  the 
moderate  tories.     It  is  probable  that  no  direct  communication  tending 
to  such  a  coalition  had  yet  taken  place ;  yet  all  men  saw  that  such  a 
coalition-was  inevitable,  nay,  that  it  was  already  half  formed.     Such,  off 
nearly  such,  was  the  state  of  things  when  tidings  arrived  of  the  great 
battle  fought  at  Blenheim  on  the  13th  August,  1704.     By  the  whigs 
the  news  was  now  hailed  with  transports  of  joy  and  pride.     No  fault, 
no  cause  of  quarrel,  could  be  remembered  by  them  against  the  command- 
er whose  genius  had,  in  one  day,  changed  the  face  of  Europe,  saved  the 
imperial  throne,  humbled  the  house  of  Bourbon,  and  secured  the  act  of 
;    settlement  against  foreign  hostility.     The  feeling  of  the  tories  was  very 
'  different.     They  could  not,  indeed,  without  imprudence,  openly  express 
\  regret  at  an  event  so  glorious  to  their  couulry ;  but  their  congratula- 
\  tions  were  so  cold  and  sullen  as  to  give  deep  disg-ust  to  the  victorious 
f^  general  and  his  friends. 

I         Godolphin  was  not  a  reading  man.     Whatever  time  he  could  spare 
;^  from  business  he  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  at  Newmarket  or  at  the 


XXXIV  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

card-table.  But  he  was  not  absolutely  indifferent  to  poetry;  and  he 
was  too  intelligent  an  observer  not  to  perceive  that  literature  was  a  for- 
midable engine  of  political  warfare  ;  and  that  the  great  whig  leaders  had 
strengthened  their  party,  and  raised  their  character,  by  extending  a  libe- 
ral and  judicious  patronage  to  good  writers.  He  was  mortified,  and  not 
without  reason,  by  the  exceeding  badness  of  the  poems  which  appeared 
in  honor  of  the  battle  of  Blenheim.  One  of  these  poems  has  been  res- 
cued from  oblivion  by  the  exquisite  absurdity  of  three  lines  • 

"  Think  of  two  thousand  gentlemen  at  least, 
And  each  man  mounted  on  his  capering  beast;  • 
Into  the  Danube  they  were  pushed  by  shoals." 

"Where  to  piocure  better  verses  the  treasurer  did  not  know.  He 
understood  how  to  negotiate  a  loan,  or  remit  a  subsidy.  He  was  also 
well  versed  in  the  history  of  running  horses  and  fighting  cocks ;  but 
his  acquaintance  among  the  poets  was  very  small.  He  consulted  Hali- 
fax ;  but  Halifax  affected  to  decline  the  office  of  adviser.  He  had,  he 
said,  done  his  best,  when  he  had  power,  to  encourage  men  whose  abili- 
ties and  acquirements  might  do  honor  to  their  country.  Those  times 
were  over.  Other  maxims  had  prevailed.  Merit  was  suffered  to  pine 
in  obscurity ;  the  public  money  was  squandered  on  the  undeserving 
"  I  do  know,"  he  added,  "  a  gentleman  who  would  celebrate  the  battle 
in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  subject.  But  I  will  not  name  him."  Go- 
dolphin,  who  was  expert  at  the  soft  answer  which  turneth  away  wrath, 
and  who  was  under  the  necessity  of  paying  court  to  the  w  higs,  gently 
replied,  that  there  was  too  much  ground  for  Halifax's  complaints,  but 
that  what  was  amiss  should  in  time  be  rectified ;  and  that  in  the  mean 
tinie  the  services  of  a  man  such  as  Halifax  had  described  should  be  libe- 
rally rewarded.  Halifax  then  mentioned  Addison,  but,  mindful  of  the 
dignity  as  well  as  of  the  pecuniary  interest  of  his  friend,  insisted  that  the 
minister  should  appl}'-  in  the  most  courteous  manner  to  Addison  him- 
self; and  this  Godolphin  promised  to  do. 

Addison  then  occupied  a  garret  up  three  pair  of  stairs,  over  a  small 
shop  in  the  Haymarket.  In  this  humble  lodging  he  was  surprised,  on 
the  morning  which  followed  the  conversation  between  Godolphin  and 
Halifax,  by  a  visit  from  no  less  a  person  than  the  Right  Honorable 
Henry  Boyle,  then  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  afterwards  Lord 
Carleton.  This  high-born  minister  had  been  sent  by  the  lord-treasu- 
rer as  ambassador  to  the  needy  poet.  Addison  readily  undertook  the 
proposed  task,  a  task  which  to  so  good  a  whig  was  probably  a  pleasure. 
When  the  poem  was  little  more  than  half  finished,  he  showed  it  to  Go- 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXXV 

dolphin,  who  was  delighted  with  it,  and  particularly  with  the  famous 
similitude  of  the  angel.  Addison  was  instantly  appointed  to  a  commis- 
cionership,  with  about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  was  assured 
that  this  appointment  was  only  an  earnest  of  greater  favors. 

The  '•  Campaign  "  came  forth,  and  was  as  much  admired  by  the  pub- 
lic as  by  the  minister.  It  pleases  us  less  on  the  whole  than  the  "  Epis- 
3  to  Halifax."  Yet  it  undoubtedly  ranks  high  among  the  poems  which 
appeared  during  the  interval  between  the  death  of  Dryden  and  the  dawTi 
of  Pope's  genius.  The  chief  merit  of  the  ^'  Campaign,"  we  think,  is  that 
which  was  noticed  by  Johnson — the  manly  and  rational  rejection  of  fic- 
tion. The  first  great  poet  whose  works  have  come  down  to  us  sang  of 
war  long  before  war  became  a  science  or  a  trade.  If,  in  his  time,  there 
was  enmity  between  two  little  Greek  towns,  each  poured  forth  its  crowd 
of  citizens,  ignorant  of  discipline,  and  armed  with  implements  of  labor 
rudely  turned  into  weapons.  On  each  side  appeared  conspicuous  a  few 
chiefs,  whose  wealth  had  enabled  them  to  procure  good  armor,  horses, 
and  chariots,  and  whose  leisure  had  enabled  thorn  to  practise  military 
exercises.  One  such  chief,  if  he  were  a  man  of  great  strength,  agility, 
and  courage,  would  probably  be  more  formidable  than  twenty  common 
men  ;  and  the  force  and  dexterity  with  which  he  hurled  his  spear  might 
have  no  inconsiderable  share  in  deciding  the  event  of  the  day.  Such 
were  probably  the  battles  with  which  Homer  was  famihar.  But  Ho- 
mer related  the  actions  of  men  of  a  former  generation — of  men  who 
sprang  from  the  gods,  and  communed  with  the  gods  face  to  face — of 
men,  one  of  whom  could  with  ease  hurl  rocks  which  two  sturdy  hinds 
of  a  later  period  would  be  unable  even  to  lift.  He  therefore  naturally 
represented  their  martial  exploits  as  resembling  in  kind,  but  far  sur- 
passing in  magnitude,  those  of  the  stoutest  and  most  expert  combatants 
of  his  own  age.  Achilles,  clad  in  celestial  armor,  drawn  by  celestial 
coursers,  grasping  the  spear  which  none  but  himself  could  raise,  driving 
all  Troy  and  Lycia  before  him,  and  choking  the  Scamander  with  dead, 
was  only  a  magnificent  exaggeration  of  the  real  hero,  who,  strong,  fear- 
less, accustomed  to  the  use  of  weapons,  guarded  by  a  shield  and  helmet 
of  the  best  Sidonian  fabric,  and  whirled  along  by  horses  of  Thessalian 
breed,  struck  down  with  his  own  right  arm  foe  after  foe.  In  all  rudo 
ocieties  similar  notions  are  found.  There  are  at  this  day  countries 
where  the  life-guardsman  Shaw  would  be  considered  as  a  much  greater 
warrior  than  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Bonaparte  loved  to  describe  the 
astonishment  with  which  the  Mamelukes  looked  at  his  diminutive  fig- 
ure. Mourad  Bey,  distinguished  above  all  his  fellows  Jby  his  bodily 
strength,  and  by  the  skill  with  which  he  managed  his  horse  and  his 


XXXVl  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

sabre,  could  not  bclieye  that  a  man  who  was  scarcely  five  feet  high  and 
rode  like  a  butcher,  was  the  greatest  soldier  in  Europe, 

Homer's  descriptions  of  war  had  therefore  as  much  truth  as  poetry 
requires.  But  truth  was  altogether  wanting  to  the  performances  of 
those  who,  writing  about  battles  which  had  scarcely  any  thing  in  com- 
mon with  the  battles  of  his  times,  servilely  imitated  his  manner.  The 
folly  of  Silius  Italicus,  in  particular,  is  positively  nauseous.  He  under- 
took to  record  in  verse  the  vicissitudes  of  a  great  struggle  between  gen- 
erals of  the  first  order ;  and  his  narrative  is  made  up  of  the  hideous 
wounds  which  these  generals  inflicted  with  their  own  hands.  Asdrubal 
fling-s  a  spear  which  grazes  the  shoulder  of  consul  Nero  ;  but  Nero  sends 
his  spear  into  Asdrubal's  side.  Fabius  slays  Thuris,  and  Butes.  and 
Maris,  and  Arses,  and  the  long-haired  Adherbes,  and  the  gigantic  Thy- 
lis,  and  Sapharus,  and  Monsesus,  and  the  trumpeter  Morinus.  Hanni- 
bal runs  Perusinus  through  the  groin  with  a  stake,  and  breaks  the  thigh 
bone  of  Telesinus  with  a  huge  stone.  This  detestable  fashion  was  copied 
in  modern  times,  and  continued  to  prevail  down  to  the  age  of  Addison. 
Several  versifiers  had  described  William  turning  thousands  to  flight  by 
his  single  prowess,  and  dyeing  the  Boyne  with  Irish  blood.  Nay,  so 
estimable  a  writer  as  John  Philips,  the  author  of  the  "  Splendid  Shil- 
ling," represented  Marlborough  as  having  won  the  battle  of  Blenheim 
merely  by  strength  of  muscle  and  skill  in  fence.  The  following  lines 
may  serve  as  an  example : — 

"  Churchill  A'iewing  where 
,ilie  violence  of  Tallard  most  prevailed, 
Came  to  oppose  his  slaughtering  arm.    Witlx  speed 
Precipitate  he  rode,  urging  his  way 
O'er  hills  of  gasping  heroes,  and  fallen  steeds 
Rolling  in  death.    Destruction,  grim  with  blood, 
Attends  his  furious  course.    Around  his  head 
The  glowing  balls  play  innocent,  while  he 
With  dire  impetuous  sway  deals  fatal  blows 
Among  the  flying  Gauls.    In  Gallic  blood 
He  dyes  his  reeking  sword,  and  strews  the  ground 
With  headless  ranks.    What  can  they  do?    Or  how 
Withstand  his  Mide-destroying  sword ? " 

Addison,  with  excellent  sense  and  taste,  departed  from  this  ridicu- 

^  ,  lous  fashion.     He  reserved  his  praise  for  the  qualities  which  made  Marl- 

t- — Y   i  borough  truly  great,  energy,  sagacity,  military  science.     But,  above  all, 

J^  I  the  poet  extolled  the  firmness  of  that  mind  which,  in  the  midst  of  con- 

i'  fusion,  uproar,  and  slaughter,  examined  and  disposed  every  thing  with 

I  the  serene  wi§dom  of  a  higher  intelligence. 

Here  it  was  that  he  introduced  the  famous  comparison  of  Marlbo- 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.         XXXVll 

rough  to  an  angel  guiding  the  whirlwind.  We  will  not  dispute  the  gen- 
eral justice  of  Johnson's  remarks  on  this  passage.  But  we  must  point 
out  one  circumstance  which  appears  to  have  escaped  all  the  critics.^  The 
extraordinary  effect  which  this  simile  produced  when  it  first  appeared, 
and  which  to  the  following  generations  seemed  inexplicable,  is  doubtless 
to  be  chiefly  attributed  to  a  line  which  most  readers  now  regard  as  a 
feeble  parenthesis — 

"Such  as  of  late  o'er  palo  Britannia  pass'd." 

Addison  spoke,  not  of  a  storm,  but  of  the  storm.  The  great  tempest  of'* 
November,  1703,  the  only  tempest  which  in  our  latitude  has  equalled 
the  rage  of  a  tropical  hurricane,  had  left  a  dreadful  recollection  in  the 
minds  of  all  men.  No  other  tempest  was  ever  in  this  country  the  occa- 
sion of  a  parliamentary  address  or  of  a  public  fast.  Whole  fleets  had 
been  cast  away.  Large  mansions  had  been  blown  down.  One  prelate 
had  been  buried  beneath  the  ruins  of  his  palace.  London  and  Bristol 
had  presented  the  appearance  of  cities  just  sacked.  Hundreds  of  fami- 
lies were  still  in  mourning.  The  prostrate  trunks  of  large  trees,  and  the 
ruins  of  houses,  still  attested,  in  all  the  southern  counties,  the  fury  of 
the  blast.  The  popularity  which  the  simile  of  the  angel  enjoyed  among 
Addison's  contemporaries,  has  always  seemed  to  us  to  be  a  remarkable 
instance  of  the  advantage  which,  in  rhetoric  and  poetry,  the  particular 
has  over  the  general. 

Soon  after  the  Campaign,  was  published  Addison's  Narrative  of  his 
Travels  in  Italy.  The  first  effect  produced  by  this  narrative  was  disap- 
pointment. The  crowd  of  readers  who  expected  politics  and  scandal, 
speculations  on  the  projects  of  Victor  Amadeus,  and  anecdotes  about  the 
jollities  of  convents  and  the  amours  of  cardinals  and  nuns,  were  con- 
founded by  finding  that  the  writer's  mind  was  much  more  occupied  by 
the  war  between  the  Trojans  and  Rutulians  than  by  the  war  between 
France  and  Austria  j  and  that  he  seemed  to  have  heard  no  scandal  of 
later  date  than  the  gallantries  of  the  Empress  Faustina.  In  time,  how- 
ever, the  judgment  of  the  many  was  overruled  by  that  of  the  few;  and 
before  the  book  was  reprinted,  it  was  so  eagerly  sought  that  it  sold  for 
five  times  the  original  price.  It  is  still  read  with  pleasure  :  the  style  is 
pure  and  flowing ;  the  classical  quotations  and  allusions  are  numerous 
and  happy ;  and  we  are  now  and  then  charmed  by  that  singularly  hu- 
mane and  delicate  humor  in  which  Addison  excelled  all  men.  Yet  this 
agreeable  work,  even  when  considered  merely  as  the  history  of  a  litera- 

•>  Escaped  all  t?ie  critics.    Here  Macaulay  is  mistaken,  for  this  circumstance  lind  already 
fjce-u  noticed  many  years- before  by  a  critic,  cited  in  No.  158  of  the  Addisoniana. 


XXXVlll       LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

ry  tour,  may  justly  be  censured  on  account  of  its  faults  of  omission. 
We  have  already  said  that,  though  rich  in  extracts  from  the  Latin  poets, 
it  contains  scarcely  any  references  to  the  Latin  orators  and  historians. 
We  must  add  that  it  contains  little,  or  rather  no  information,  respecting 
the  history  and  literature  of  modern  Italy.  To  the  best  of  our  remem- 
brance, Addison  does  not  mention  Dante,  Petrarch,  Boccaccio,  Boiardo^ 
Berni,  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  Machiavelli.  lie  coldly  tells  ns,  that  at  Fcr- 
rara  he  saw  the  tomb  of  Ariosto,  and  that  at  Venice  he  heard  the  gondo- 
liers sing  verses  of  Tasso.  But  for  Tasso  and  Ariosto  he  cared  far  less 
than  for  Valerius  Flaccus  and  Sidonius  Apollinaris.  The  gentle  flow  of 
the  Ticin  brings  a  line  of  Silius  to  his  mind.  The  sulphurous  stream  of 
Albula  suggests  to  him  several  passages  of  Martial.  But  he  has  not  a 
word  to  say  of  the  illustrious  dead  of  Santa  Croce ;  he  crosses  the  wood 
of  Ravenna  without  recollecting  the  Spectre  Huntsman ;  and  wanders 
up  and  down  Rimini  without  one  thought  of  Francesca.  At  Paris,  he 
eagerly  sought  an  introduction  to  Boileau ;  but  he  seems  not  to  have 
been  at  all  aware,  that  at  Florence  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of  a  poet  with 
whom  Boileau  could  not  sustain  a  comparison,  of  the  greatest  lyric  poet 
of  modern  times,  of  Vincenzio  Filicaja.  This  is  the  more  remarkable, 
because  Filicaja  was  the  favorite  poet  of  the  all-accomplished  Somers, 
under  wiiose  protection  Addison  travelled,  and  to  whom  the  account  of 
the  Travels  is  dedicated.  The  truth  is,  that  Addison  knew  little,  and 
cared  less,  about  the  literature  of  modern  Italy.  His  favorite  models 
were  Latin.  His  favorite  critics  were  French.  Half  the  Tuscan  poetry 
that  he  had  read  seemed  to  him  monstrous,  and  the  other  half  tawdry. 

His  Travels  were  followed  by  the  lively  opera  of  "Rosamond." 
This  piece  was  ill  set  to  music,  and  therefore  failed  on  the  stage ;  but  it 
completely  succeeded  in  print,  and  is  indeed  excellent  in  its  kind.  The 
smoothness  with  which_  the  verses  glide,  and  the  elasticity  with  which 
they  bound,  is,  to  our  ears  at  least,  very  pleasing.  We  are  inclined  to 
think  that  if  Addison  had  left  heroic  couplets  to  .Pope,  and  blank  verse 
to  Rowe,  and  had  employed  himself  in  writing  airy  and  spirited  song's, 
his  reputation  as  a  poet  would  have  stood  far  higher  than  it  now  docs. 
Some  years  after  his  death,  "  Rosamond  "  was  set  to  new  music  by  Doc- 
tor Arne;  and  was  performed  with  complete  success.  Several  passages 
long  retained  their  popularity,  and  were  daily  sung,  during  the  latter 
part  of  George  the  Second's  reign,  at  all  the  harpsichords  in  England. 

While  Addison  thus  amused  himself,  his  pro- •jiects  and  the  pi-os- 
pects  of  his  party  were  constantly  becoming  brighter  and  brighter.  In 
the  spring  of  1705  the  ministry  were  freed  from  the  restraint  imposed 
by  a  House  of  Commons,  in  which  tories  of  the  most  perverse  class  had 


LIFE      AND      WR     TINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XXXIX 

the  ascendency.  The  elections  were  favorable  to  the  whigs.  The 
coalition  which  had  been  tacitly  and  gradually  formed  was  now  openly 
avowed.  The  great  seal  was  given  to  Cowper.  Somers  and  Halifax 
were  sworn  of  the  council.  Halifax  was  sent  in  the  following  year  to 
caiTy  the  decorations  of  the  garter  to  the  electoral  prince  of  Hanover, 
and  was  accompanied  on  this  honorable  mission  by  Addison,  who  had 
just  been  made  under-secretary  of  state.  The  secretary  of  state  under 
whom  Addison  first  served  was  Sir  Charles  Hedges,  a  tory.  But 
Hedges  was  soon  dismissed  to  make  room  for  the  most  vehement  of 
whigs,  Charles,  Earl  of  Sunderland.  In  every  department  of  the  state, 
indeed,  the  high  churchmen  were  compelled  to  give  place  to  their 
opponents.  At  the  close  of  1707  the  tories  who  still  remained  in  office 
strove  to  rally,  with  Harley  at  their  head.  But  the  attempt,  though 
favored  by  the  queen,  who  had  always  been  a  tory  at  heart,  and  who 
had  now  quarrelled  with  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  was  unsuccessful. 
The  time  was  not  yet.  The  captain-general  was  at  the  height  of  popu- 
larity and  glory.  The  low-church  party  had  a  majority  in  Parliament. 
The  country  squires  and  rectors,  though  occasionally  uttering  a  savage 
growl,  were  for  the  most  part  in  a  state  of  torpor,  which  lasted  till  they 
were  roused  into  activity,  and  indeed  into  madness,  by  the  prosecution 
of  Sacheverell.  Harley  and  his  adherents  were  compelled  to  retire. 
The  victory  of  the  whigs  was  complete.  At  the  general  election  of 
1708  their  strength  in  the  House  of  Commons  became  irresistible; 
and  before  the  end  of  that  year,  Somers  was  made  lord-president  of  the 
council,  and  Wharton  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland. 

Addison  sat  for  Malmsbury  in  the  House  of  Commons  which  was 
elected  in  1708.  But  the  House  of  Commons  was  not  the  field  for  him. 
The  bashfulness  of  his  nature  made  his  wit  and  eloquence  useless  in 
debate.  He  once  rose,  but  could  not  overcome  his  diffidence,  and  ever 
after  remained  silent.  Nobody  can  think  it  strange  that  a  great  writer 
should  fail  as  a  speaker.  But  many,  probably,  will  think  it  strange 
that  Addison's  failure  as  a  speaker  should  have  had  no  unfavorable 
effect  on  his  success  as  a  politician.  In  our  time,  a  man  of  high  rank 
and  great  fortune  might,  though  speaking  very  little  and  very  ill,  hold 
a  considerable  post.  But  it-  is  inconceivable  that  a  mere  adventurer,  a 
man  who,  when  out  of  office,  must  live  by  his  pen,  should  in  a  few 
years  become  successively  under-secretary  of  state,  chief  secretary  for 
Ireland,  and  secretary  of  state,  without  some  oratorical  talent.  Addi- 
son, without  high  birth,  and  with  little  property,  rose  to  a  post  which 
dukes,  the  heads  of  the  great  houses  of  Talbot,  Russell,  and  Bentinck, 
have    thought  it  an  honor  to    fill.      Without  opening    his    lips   in 


XI  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

debate,  he  rose  to  a  post  the  highest  that  Chatham  or  Fox  ever  reached. 
And  this  he  did  before  he  had  been  nine  years  in  Parliament.  We 
must  look  for  the  explanation  of  this  seeming  miracle  to  the  peculiar 
circumstances  in  which  that  generation  was  placed.  During  the  inter- 
val which  elapsed  between  the  time  when  the  censorship  of  the  press 
ceased  and  the  time  when  parliamentary  proceedings  began  to  be  freely 
reported,  literary  talents  were,  to  a  public  man,  of  much  more  impor- 
tance, oratorical  talents  of  much  less  importance,  than  in  our  time.  At 
present,  the  best  way  of  giving  rapid  and  wide  publicity  to  a  statement 
or  an  argument,  is  to  introduce  that  statement  or  argument  into  a 
speech  made  in  Parliament.  If  a  political  tract  were  to  appear  superior 
to  the  conduct  of  the  Allies,  or  to  the  best  numbers  of  the  Freeholder,  the 
circulation  of  such  a  tract  would  be  languid  indeed  when  compared  with 
the  circulation  of  every  remarkable  word  uttered  in  the  deliberations  of 
the  legislature.  A  speech  made  in  the  House  of  Commons  at  four  in  the 
morning,  is  on  thirty  thousand  tables  before  ten.  A  speech  made  on  the 
Monday  is  read  on  the  Wednesday  by  multitudes  in  Antrim  and  Aber- 
deenshire. The  orator,  by  the  help  of  the  short-hand  writer,  has  to  a 
great  extent  superseded  the  pamphleteer.  It  was  not  so  in  the  reign 
of  Anne.  The  best  speech  could  then  produce  no  eifect  except  on  those 
who  heard  it.  It  was  only  by  means  of  the  press  that  the  opinion  of 
the  public  without  doors  could  be  influenced ;  and  the  opinion  of  the 
public  without  doors  could  not  but  be  of  the  highest  importance  in  a 
country  governed  by  parliaments  ;  and  indeed  at  that  time  governed  by 
triennial  parliaments.  The  pen  was,  therefore,  a  more  formidable  po- 
litical engine  than  the  tongue.  Mr.  Pitt  and  ^Ir.  Fox  contended  only 
in  Parliament.  But  Walpole  and  Pulteney,  the  Pitt  and  Fox  of  an 
earlier  period,  had  not  done  half  of  what  was  necessary,  when  they  sat 
down  amidst  the  acclamations  of  the  House  of  Commons.  They  had 
still  to  plead  their  cause  before  the  country,  and  this  they  could  do  only 
by  means  of  the  press.  Their  works  are  now  forgotten.  But  it  is  cer- 
tain that  there  were  in  Grub-street  few  more  assiduous  scribblers  of 
thoughts,  letters,  answers,  remarks,  than  these  two  great  chiefs  of  par- 
ties. Pulteney,  when  leader  of  the  opposition,  and  possessed  of  £30,000 
a  year,  edited  the  "  Craftsman."  Walpole,  though  not  a  man  of  liter- 
ary habits,  was  the  author  of  at  least  ten  pamphlets ;  and  retouched 
and  corrected  many  more.  These  facts  sufficiently  show  of  how 
great  importance  literary  assistance  then  was  to  the  contending  parties. 
St.  John  was,  certainly,  in  Anne's  reign,  the  best  tory  speaker ;  Cow- 
per  was  probably  the  best  whig  speaker.  But  it  may  well  be  doubted 
whether  St.  John  did  so  much  for  the  tories  as  Swift,  and  whether 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  xH 

Oowper  did  so  much  for  the  whigs  as  Addison.  When  these  things 
are  duly  considered,  it  will  not  be  thought  strange  that  Addison  should 
have  climbed  higher  in  the  state  than  any  other  Englishman  has  ever, 
by  means  merely  of  literary  talents,  been  able  to  climb.  Swift  would, 
in  all  probability,  have  climbed  as  high,  if  he  had  not  been  encumbered 
by  his  cassock  and  his  pudding-sleeves.  As  far  as  the  homage  of  the 
great  went,  Swift  had  as  much  of  it  as  if  he  had  been  lord-treasurer. 

To  the  influence  which  Addison  derived  from  his  literary  talents, 
was  added  all  the  influence  which  arises  from  .character.  The  world, 
always  ready  to  think  the  worst  of  needy  political  adventurers,  was 
forced  to  make  one  exception.  Restlessness,  violence,  audacity,  laxity 
of  principle,  are  tlie  vices  ordinarily  attributed  to  that  class  of  men. 
But  faction  itself  could  not  deny  that  Addison  had,  through  all  changes 
of  fortune,  been  strictly  faithful  to  his  early  opinions,  and  to  his  early 
friends;  that. his  integrity  was  without  stain;  that  his  whole  deport- 
ment indicated  a  fine  sense  of  the  becoming ;  that,  in  the  utmost  heat 
of  controversy,  his  zeal  was  tempered  by  a  regard  for  truth,  humanity, 
and  social  decorum ;  that  no  outrage  could  ever  provoke  him  to  retalia- 
tion unworthy  of  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman  ;  and  that  his  only  faults 
were  a  too  sensitive  delicacy,  and  a  modesty  which  amounted  to  bash- 
fulness. 

He  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  popular  men  of  his  time ;  and 
much  of  his  popularity  he  owed,  we  believe,  to  that  very  timidity  which 
his  friends  lamented.     That  timidity  often  prevented  him  from  exhibit- 
ing his  talents  to  the  best  advantage.     But  it  propitiated  Nemesis.     It 
averted  that  envy  which  would  otherwise  have  been  excited  by  fame  so 
splendid,  and  by  so  rapid  an  elevation.     No  man  is  so  great  a  favorite 
with  the  public,  as  he  who  is  at  once  an  object  of  admiration,  of  respect,  j 
and   of  pity ;    and  such  were  the  feelings  which  Addison  inspired.  I 
Those  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  hearing  his  familiar  conversation, 
declared  with  one  voice  that  it  was  superior  even  to  his  writings.     The 
brilliant  Mary  Montagu  said  that  she  had  known  all  the  wits,  and  that ' 
Addison  was  the  best  company  in  the  world.     The  malignant  Pope  was 

6  The  malignant  Pope.  With  all  our  respect  for  Macaulay,  we  must  enter  our  protest 
against  his  injustice  to  Pope,  of  whom  he  scarcely  ever  speaks  without  some  derogatory 
epithet.  Tlie  man  who  could  not  only  write  such  verses  as  these,  hut  live  up  to  them,  ha« 
Rt  least  some  claim  to  onr  re?pect. 

Me  lot  the  fonder  office  long  engage 

To  rock  tbe  cradle  of  reposing  age 

With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother's  breath — 

Muke  languor  smile,  and  smooth  the  bed  of  deatli ; 

Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye, 

And  keep  at  leaat  on*  parent  from  the  sky.— O.  Prol.  to  tie  Sat*f*»t 


Xlii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

forced  to  own,  that  there  was  a  charm  in  Addison's  talk  which  could 
be  found  nowhere  else.  Swift^  when  burning  with  animosity  against 
the  whigs,  could  not  but  confess  to  Stella,  that,  after  all,  he  had  never 
known  any  associate  so  agreeable  as  Addison.  Steele,  an  excellent 
judge  of  lively  conversation,  said,  that  the  conversation  of  Addison  was 
at  once  the  most  polite,  and  the  most  mirthful,  that  could  be  imagined  ; 
— that  it  was  Terence  and  Catullus  in  one,  heightened  by  an  exquisite 
something  that  was  neither  Terence  nor  Catullus,  but  Addison  alone. 
Young,  an  excellent  judge  of  serious  conversation,  said,  that  when  Addi- 
son was  at  his  ease,  he  went  on  in  a  noble  strain  of  thought  and  lan- 
guage, so  as  to  chain  the  attention  of  every  hearer.  Nor  were  his  great 
colloquial  powers  more  admirable  than  the  courtesy  and  softness  of 
heart  which  appeared  in  his  conversation.  At  the  same  time,  it 
would  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  was  wholly  devoid  of  the  malice 
which  is,  perhaps,  inseparable  from  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  Ho 
had  one  habit  which  both  Swift  and  Stella  applauded,  and  which  we 
hardly  know  how  to  blame.  If  his  first  attempts  to  set  a  presuming 
dunce  right,  were  ill  received,  he  changed  his  tone,  "  assented  with  civil 
leer,"  and  lured  the  flattered  coxcomb  deeper  and  deeper  into  absurdi- 
ty. That  such  was  his  practice  we  should,  we  think,  have  guessed 
from  his  works.  The  Tatler's  criticisms  on  Mr.  Softly's  sonnet,  and 
the  Spectator's  dialogue  with  the  politician,  who  is  so  zealous  for  the 
honor  of  Lady  Q — p — t — s,  are  excellent  specimens  of  this  innocent 
mischief. 

Such  were  Addison's  talents  for  conversation.  But  his  rare  gifts 
were  not  exhibited  to  crowds  or  to  strangers.  As  soon  as  he  entered  a 
large  company,  as  soon  as  he  saw  an  unknown  face,  his  lips  were  sealed, 
and  his  manners  became  constrained.  None  who  met  him  only  in  great 
assemblies,  would  have  been  able  to  believe  that  he  was  the  same  man 
who  had  often  kept  a  few  friends  listening  and  laughing  round  a  table, 
from  the  time  when  the  play  ended,  till  the  clock  of  St.  Paul's  in  Covent- 
Garden  struck  four.  Yet,  even  at  such  a  table,  he  was  not  seen  to  the 
best  advantage.  To  enjoy  his  conversation  in  the  highest  perfection,  it 
was  necessary  to  be  alone  with  him,  and  to  hear  him,  in  his  own  phrase, 
think  .aloud.  "  There  is  no  such  thing,"  he  used  to  say,  "as  real  conver- 
sation, but  between  two  persons." 

This  timidity,  a  timidity  surely  neither  ungraceful  nor  unamiable, 
led  Addison  into  the  two  most  serious  faults  wliich  can  with  justice  be 
imputed  to  him.  He  found  that  wine  broke  the  spell  which  la}^  on  his 
fine  intellect,  and  was  therefore  too  easily  seduced  into  convivial  excess. 
Such  excess  was  in  that  age  regarded,  even  by  grave  men,  as  the  most 


LIFE     AND      WRITINGS     OF      ADDISON.  xliil 

venial  of  all  peccadilloes ;  and  was  so  far  from  being  a  mark  of  ill- 
breeding  that  it  was  almost  essential  to  the  character  of  a  fine  gentle- 
man. But  the  smallest  sppok  is  soon  on  n,  whitp.  p;rn|ir>rl  •  and  almost 
all  the  biographers  of  Addison  have  said  something  about  this  failing. 
Of  any  other  statesman  or  writer  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  we  should  no 
more  think  of  saying  that  he  sometimes  took  too  much  wine,  than  that 
he  wore  a  long  wig  and  a  sword. 

To  the  excessive  modesty  of  Addison's  nature,  we  must  ascribe 
another  fault  which  generally  arises  from  a  very  different  cause.  He 
became  a  little  too  fond  of  seeing  himself  surrounded  by  a  small  circle 
of  admirers,  to  whom  he  was  as  a  king  or  rather  as  a  god.  All  these 
men  were  far  inferior  to  him  in  ability,  and  some  of  them  had  very  seri- 
ous faults.  Nor  did  those  faults  escape  his  observation ;  for,  if  ever 
there  was  an  eye  which  saw  through  and  through  men,  it  was  the  eye 
of  Addison.  But  with  the  keenest  observation,  and  the  finest  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  he  had  a  large  charity.  The  feeling  with  which  he  look- 
ed on  most  of  his  humble  companions  was  one  of  benevolence,  slightly 
tinctured  with  contempt.  He  was  at  perfect  ease  in  their  company  ;  he 
was  grateful  for  their  devoted  attachment ;  and  he  loaded  them  with 
benefits.  Their  veneration  for  him  appears  to  have  exceeded  that  with 
which  Johnson  was  regarded  by  Boswell,  or  Warburton  by  Hurd.  It 
was  not  in  the  power  of  adulation  to  turn  such  a  head,  or  deprave  such 
a  heart  as  Addison's.  But  it  must  in  candor  be  admitted,  that  he  con- 
tracted some  of  the  faults  which  can  scarcely  be  avoided  by  any  per- 
son who  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  the  oracle  of  a  small  literary  co- 
terie. 

One  member  of  this  little  society  was  Eustace  Budgell,^  a  young 
templar  of  some  hterature,  and  a  distant  relation  of  Addison.  There 
was  at  this  time  no  stain  on  the  character  of  Budgell,  and  it  is  not  im- 
probable that  his  career  would  have  been  prosperous  and  honorable,  if 
the  life  of  his  cousin  had  been  prolonged.  But  when  the  master  was 
laid  in  the  grave,  the  disciple  broke  loose  from  all  restraint ;  descended 
rapidly  from  one  degree  of  vice  and  misery  to  another ;  ruined  his  for- 
tune by  follies  ',  attempted  to  repair  it  by  crimes  ;  and  at  length  closed 
a  wicked  and  unhappy  life  by  self-murder.  Yet,  to  the  last,  the  wretch- 
ed man,  gambler,  lampooner,  cheat,  forger,  as  he  was,  retained  his  affec- 
tion and  veneration  for  Addison ;  and  recorded  those  feelings  in  the  last 

7  Budgdl.  He  forged  a  will— Dr.  Tindal's— and  drowned  himself  to  escape  prosecution. 
"  When  Eustace  Budgell  was  walking  down  to  the  Thames  determined  to  drown  himself, 
he  might,  if  he  pleased,  without  any  apprehension  of  danger,  have  turned  aside  and  first  set 
Are  to  St  James'  Palace.— Boswelt/s  Johnson,  v.  11,  p.  149.-0. 


Xliv  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON 

lines  which  he  ttaccd  before  he  hid  himself  from  infamy  under  London 
Bridge. 

Another  of  Addison's  favorite  companions  was  Ambrose  Phillipps, 
a  good  whig  and  a  middling  poet,  who  had  the  honor  of  bringing  into 
fashion  a  species  of  composition  which  has  been  called  after  his  name, 
Namhy-Pamhy.  But  the  most  remarkable  members  of  the  little  sen- 
ate, as  Pope  long  afterwards  called  it,  were  Richard  Steele  and  Thomas 
Tickell. 

Steele  had  known  Addison  from  childhood.  They  had  been  toge- 
ther at  the  Charter  House  and  at  Oxford  ;  but  circumstances  had  then, 
for  a  time,  separated  them  widely.  Steele  had  left  college  without  tak- 
ing a  degree,  had  been  disinherited  by  a  rich  relation,  had  led  a  vagrant 
life,  had  served  in  the  army,  had  tried  to  find  the  philosopher's  stone, 
and  had  written  a  religious  treatise  and  several  comedies.  He  was  one 
of  those  people  whom  it  is  impossible  either  to  hate  or  to  respect.  His 
temper  was  sweet,  his  affections  warm,  his  spirits  lively,  his  passions- 
strong,  and  his  principles  weak.  His  life  was  spent  in  sinning  and  re-' 
penting,  in  inculcating  what  was  right,  and  doing  what  was  wrong.  In 
speculation,  he  was  a  man  of  piety  and  honor;  in  practice,  he  was 
much  of  the  rake  and  a  little  of  the  swindler.  He  was,  however,  so 
good-natured  that  it  was  not  easy  to  be  seriously  angry  with  him,  and 
that  even  rigid  moralists  felt  more  inclined  to  pity  than  to  blame  him, 
when  he  diced  himself  into  a  spunging-house,  or  drank  himself  into  a 
fever.  Addison  regarded  Steele  with  kindness  not  unmingled  with 
scorn,® — tried,  with  little  success,  to  keep  him  out  of  scrapes,  introducing 
him  to  the  great,  procured  a  good  place  for  him,  corrected  his  plays, 
and,  though  by  no  means  rich,  lent  him  large  sums  of  money.  One  of 
these  loans  appears,  from  a  letter  dated  in  August,  1708,  to  have 
amounted  to  a  thousand  pounds.  These  pecuniary  transactions  proba- 
bly led  to  frequent  bickerings.  It  is  said  that,  on  one  occasion,  Steele's 
negligence,  or  dishonesty,  provoked  Addison  to  repay  himself  by  the 
help  of  a  bailiff.  We  cannot  join  with  Miss  Aikin  in  rejecting  this 
story.  Johnson  heard  it  from  Savage,  who  heard  it  from  Steele.  Few 
private  transactions  which  took  plac^  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago 
are  proved  by  stronger  evidence  than  this.  But  we  can  by  no  means- 
agree  with  those  who  condemn  Addison's  severity.  The  most  amiable 
of  mankind  may  well  be  moved  to  indignation,  when  Avhat  he  has  earned 

8  Steele.  "  Not  nnmingled  with  scorn  "—a  strong  expression,  and  whicli  should  liave  been 
supported  by  something  better  than  conjecture.  Tiie  story  of  Steele's  arrest  stands,  iia 
Macaulay  says,  on  the  best  evidence,  but  the  picture  in  the  text  is  too  much  of  a  fancy  pieo© 
to  be  admitted  as  history.— Q. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  XIV 

kardly,  and  lent  with  great  inconvenience  to  himself,  for  the  purpose  of 
relieving  a  friend  in  distress,  is  squandered  with  insane  profusion.  We 
will  illustrate  our  meaning  by  an  example,  which  is  not  the  less  striking 
because  it  is  taken  from  fiction.  Dr.  Harrison,  in  Fielding's  "  Amelia," 
is  represented  as  the  most  benevolent  of  human  beings ;  yet  he  takes 
in  execution,  not  only  the  goods,  but  the  person  of  his  friend  Booth. 
Dr.  Harrison  resorts  to  this  strong  measure  because  he  has  been  inform- 
ed that  Booth,  while  pleading  poverty  as  an  excuse  for  not  paying  just 
debts,  has  been  buying  fine  jewellery,  and  setting  up  a  coach.  No  per- 
son who  is  well  acquainted  with  Steele's  life  and  correspondence,  can 
doubt  that  he  behaved  quite  as  ill  to  Addison  as  Booth  was  accused  of 
behaving  to  Dr.  Harrison.  The  real  history,  we  have  little  doubt,  was 
something  like  this : — A  letter  comes  to  Addison,  imploring  help  in 
pathetic  terms,  and  promising  reformation  and  speedy  repayment.  Poor 
Dick  declares  that  he  has  not  an  inch  of  candle,  or  a  bushel  of  coals,  or 
credit  with  the  butcher  for  a  shoulder  of  mutton.^  Addison  is  moved. 
He  determines  to  deny  himself  some  medals  which  are  wanting  to  his 
series  of  the  Twelve  Caesars ;  to  put  off  buying  the  new  edition  of  ./ 
"  Bayle's  Dictionary  "  and  to  wear  his  old  sword  and  buckles  another 
year.  In  this  way  he  manages  to  send  a  hundred  pounds  to  his  friend.  ' 
The  next  day  he  calls  on  Steele,  and  finds  scores  of  gentlemen  and  ladies 
assembled.  The  fiddles  are  playing.  The  table  is  groaning  under 
Champagne,  Burgundy,  and  pyramids  of  sweetmeats.  Is  it  strange 
that  a  man  whose  kindness  is  thus  abused,  should  send  sherifi''s  officers 
to  reclaim  what  is  due  to  him  ? 

Tickell  was  a  young  man,  fresh  from  Oxford,  who  had  introduced 
himself  to  public  notice  by  writing  a  most  ingenious  and  grateful  little 
poem  in  praise  of  the  opera  of  "  Rosamond."  He  deserved,  and  at 
length  attained,  the  first  place  in  Addison's  friendship.  For  a  time 
Steele  and  Tickell  were  on  good  terms.  But  they  loved  Addison  too 
much  to  love  each  other ;  and  at  length  became  as  bitter  enemies  as  the 
rival  bulls  in  Virgil. 

At  the  close  of  1708,  Wharton  became  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland,  » 
and  appointed  Addison  chief  secretary.  Addison  was  consequently  un- 
der the  necessity  of  quiting  London  for  Dubhn.  Besides  the  chief  secre- 
taryship, which  was  then  worth  about  two  thousand  pounds  a  year,  he 
obtained  a  patent  appointing  him  keeper  of  the  Irish  records  for  life, 
with  a  salary  of  three  or  four  hundred  a  year.  Budgell  accompanied 
his  cousin  in  the  capacity  of  private  secretary. 

Wharton  and  Addison  had  nothing  in  common  but  whiggism.  The 
lord-lieutenant  was  not  only  licentious  and  corrupt,  but  was  distinguish- 


X\\i  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS     OF      ADDISON. 

ed  from  other  libertines  and  jobbers  by  a  callous  impudence  whict  pre- 
sented the  strongest  contrast  to  the  secretary's  gentleness  and  delicacy. 
Many  parts  of  the  Irish  administration  at  this  time  appear  to  have  de- 
served serious  blame.  But  against  Addison  there  was  not  a  murmur. 
lie  long  afterwards  asserted,  what  all  the  evidence  which  we  have  ever 
seen  tends  to  prove,  that  his  diligence  and  integrity  gained  the  friendship 
of  all  the  most  considerable  persons  in  Ireland. 

The  parliamentary  career  of  Addison  in  Ireland  has,  we  think^ 
escaped  the  notice  of  all  his  biographers.  He  was  elected  member  for 
the  borough  of  Cavan  in  the  summer  of  1709  j  and  in  the  journals  of 
two  sessions  his  name  frequently  occurs.  Some  of  the  entries  appear 
to  indicate  that  he  so  far  overcame  his  timidity  as  to  make  speeches. 
Nor  is  this  by  any  means  improbable ;  for  the  Irish  House  of  Commons 
was  a  far  less  formidable  audience  than  the  English  house ;  and  many 
tongues  which  were  tied  by  fear  in  the  greater  assembly  became  fluent 
in  the  smaller.  Gerard  Hamilton,  for  example,  who,  from  fear  of  losing 
the  fame  gained  by  his  "single  speech,"  sat  mute  at  Westminster  during 
forty  years,  spoke  with  great  effect  at  Dublin  when  he  was  secretary  to 
Lord  Halifax. 

While  Addison  was  in  Ireland,  an  event  occurred  to  which  he  owes 
his  high  and  permanent  rank  among  British  waiters.  As  yet  his  fame 
rested  on  performances  which,  though  highly  respectable,  were  not  built 
for  duration,  and  would,  if  he  had  produced  nothing  else,  have  now  been 
almost  forgotten,  on  some  excellent  Latin  verses,  on  some  English  verses 
which  occasionally  rose  above  mediocrity,  and  on  a  book  of  travels, 
agreeably  written,  but  not  indicating  any  extraordinary  powers  of  mind. 
These  works  showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  taste,  sense,  and  learning. 
The  time  had  come  when  he  was  to  prove  himself  a  man  of  genius,  and 
to  enrich  our  literature  with  compositions  which  will  live  as  long  as  the 
English  language. 

In  the  spring  of  1709,  Steele  formed  a  literary  project,  of  which  he. 
was  far  indeed  from  foreseeing  the  consequences.  Periodical  papers  had 
during  many  years  been  published  in  London.  Most  of  these  were 
political ;  but  in  some  of  them  questions  of  morality,  taste,  and  love- 
casuistry  had  been  discussed.  The  literary  merit  of  these  works  was 
small  indeed  ;  and  even  their  names  are  now  known  only  to  the  curi- 
ous. 

Steele  had  been  appointed  gazetteer  by  Sunderland,  at  the  request, 
jt  is  said,  of  Addison  ;  and  thus  had  access  to  foreign  intelligence  earlier 
and  more  authentic  than  was  in  those  times  within  the  reach  of  an  ordi- 
nary news-writer.     This  circumstance  seems  tx)  have  suggested  to  him 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  xlvil 

,tie  scheme  of  publishing  a  periodical  paper  on  a  new  plan.  It  was  to 
ctppear  on  the  daj's  on  which  the  post  left  London  for  the  country,  which 
were,  in  that  generation,  the  Tuesdays,  ThursdaySj.  and  Saturdays.  It 
was  to  contain  the  foreign  news,  accounts  of  theatrical  representations, 
and  the  literary  gossip  of  "Will's  and  of  the  Grecian.  It  was  also  to  con- 
tain remarks  on  the  fashionable  topics  of  the  day,  compliments  to  beau- 
ties, pasquinades  on  noted  sharpers,  and  criticisms  on  popular  preachers. 
The  aim  of  Steele  does  not  appear  to  have  been  at  first  liigherLthanthis. 
He  was  not  ill  qualified  to  conduct  the  work  which  he  had  planned. 
Ilis  public  intelligence  he  drew  from  the  best  sources.  He  knew  the 
town,  and  had  paid  dear  for  his  knowledge.  He  had  read  much  more 
than  the  dissipated  men  of  that  time  were  in  the  habit  of  reading.  He 
was  a  rake  among  scholars,  and  a  scholar  among  rakes.  His  style  was  , 
easy  and  not  incorrect ;  and  though  his  wit  and  humor  were  of  no 
higher  order,  his  gay  animal  spirits  imparted  to  his  compositions  an  air 
of  vivacity  which  ordinary  readers  could  hardly  distinguish  from  comic 
genius.  His  writings  have  been  well  compared  to  those  light  wines, 
which,  though  deficient  in  body  and  flavor,  are  yet  a  pleasant  small 
drink,  if  not  kept  too  long,  or  carried  too  far. 

Isaac  Bickerstafif,  Esquire,  Astrologer,  was  an  imaginary  person, 
almost  as  well  known  in  that  age  as  ^Ir.  Paul  Pry  or  Mr.  Pickwick  in 
ours.  Swift  had  assumed  the  name  of  Bickerstaff"  in  a  satirical  pamphlet 
against  Partridge,  the  almanac-maker.  Partridge  had  been  fool  enough 
to  publish  a  furious  reply.  Bickerstaff  had  rejoined  in  a  second  pamphlet 
still  more  diverting  than  the  first.  All  the  wits  had  combined  to  keep 
up  the  joke,  and  the  town  was  long  in  convulsions  of  laughter.  Steele 
determined  to  employ  the  name  which  this  controversy  had  made  popu- 
lar ;  and,  in  April,  1709,  it  was  announced  that  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Es- 
quire, Astrologer,  was  about  to  publish  a  paper  called  the  "  Tatler."  ^ 

Addison  had  not  been  consulted  about  this  scheme  j  but  as  soon  as 
he  heard  of  it  he  determined  to  give  it  his  assistance.  The  effect  of  that 
assistance  cannot  be  better  described  than  in  Steele's  own  words.  "I 
fared,"  he  said,  "like  a  distressed  prince  who  calls  in  a  powerful  neighbor 
to  his  aid.  I  was  undone  by  my  auxiliary.  When  I  had  once  called 
him  in.  I  could  not  subsist  without  dependence  on  him."  "  The  paper," 
he  says  elsewhere,  "  was  advanced  indeed.  It  was  raised  to  a  greater 
tiling  than  I  intended  it.'' 

It  is  possible  that  Addison,  when  he  sent  across  St.  George's  Chan- 

9  The  Tailer.  Wycherly  writing  to  Pope  about  the  success  of  his  Miscellanies,  mentions 
tile  Tatler  as  "  a  whimsical  new  newspaper  which  I  suppose  you  Lave  seen." — Wych.  t« 
Poi-E,  \1th  May,  1709.— G. 


Xlviii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

nel  his  first  contributions  to  the  Tatler,  had  no  notion  of  the  extent  and 
variety  of  his  own  powers.  He  was  the  possessor  of  a  vast  mine,  rich 
•with  a  hundred  ores.  But  he  had  been  acquainted  only  with  the  least 
precious  part  of  his  treasures ;  and  had  hitherto  contented  himself  with 
producing  sometimes  copper  and  sometimes  lead,  intermingled  M'ith  a 
little  silver.  All  at  once,  and  by  mere  accident,  he  had  lighted  on  an 
inexhaustible  vein  of  the  finest  gold.  The  mere  choice  and  arrangement 
of  his  words  would  have  sufliced  to  make  his  essays  classical.  For 
never,  not  even  by  Dr3'den,  not  even  by  Temple,  had  the  English  lan- 
guage been  written  with  such  sweetness,  grace,  and  facility.  But  this 
was  the  smallest  part  of  Addison's  praise.  Had  he  clothed  his  thoughts 
in  the  half  French  style  of  Horace  Walpole.  or  in  the  half  Latin  style  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  or  in  the  half  German  jargon  of  the  present  day,  his  genius 
would  have  triumphed  over  all  faults  of  manner. 

As  a  moral  satirist,  he  stands  unrivalled.  If  ever  the  best  Tatlers 
and  Spectators  were  equalled  in  their  own  kind,  we  should  be  inclined 
to  guess  that  it  must  have  been  by  the  lost  comedies  of  Menander. 

In  wt,  properly  so  called,  Addison  was  not  inferior  to  Cowley  or 
Butler.  No  single  ode  of  Cowley  contains  so  many  happy  analogies  as 
are  crowded  into  the  lines  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller ;  and  we  would  under- 
take to  collect  from  the  "  Spectators "  as  great  a  number  of  ingenious 
illustrations  as  can  be  found  in  "  Hudibras."  The  still  higher  faculty 
of  invention  Addison  possessed  in  still  larger  measure.  The  numerous 
fictions,  generally  original,  often  wuld  and  grotesque,  but  always  singu- 
larly graceful  and  happy,  which  are  found  in  ^is  essays,  fully  entitle 
him  to  the  rank  of  a  great  poet — a  rank  to  which  his  metrical  composi- 
tions give  him  no  claim.  As  an  observer  of  life,  of  manners,  of  all  the 
shades  of  human  character,  he  stands  in  the  first  class.  And  what  he 
observed  he  had  the  art  of  communicating  in  two  widely  different  ways. 
He  could  describe  virtues,  vices,  habits,  whims,  as  well  as  Clarendon. 
But  he  could  do  something  better.  He  could  call  human  beings  into 
existence,  and  make  them  exhibit  themselves.  If  we  wish  to  find  any 
thing  more  vivid  than  Addison's  best  portraits,  we  must  go  either  to 
Shakspeare  or  to  Cervantes. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  Addison's  humor,  of  his  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  of  his  power  of  awakening  that  sense  in  others,  and  of  draw- 
ing mirth  from  incidents  which  occur  every  day,  and  from  little  peculi- 
arities of  temper  and  manner,  such  as  may  be  found  in  every  man  ? 
We  feel  the  charm.  We  give  ourselves  up  to  it.  But  wc  strive  in  vain 
to  analyze  it. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  of  describing  Addison's  peculiar  pleasantry,  is 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OP      ADDISON.  xlix 

to  compare  it  with  the  pleasantry  of  some  other  great  satirist.  The 
three  most  eminent  masters  of  the  art  of  ridicule,  during  the  eighteenth 
century,  were,  we  conceive,  Addison,  Swift,  and  Voltaire.  Whioh  of 
the  three  had  the  greatest  power  of  moving  laughter  may  be  questioned.. 
But  each  of  them,  within  his  own  domain,  was  supreme.  Voltaire  is 
the  prince  of  buffoons.  His  merriment  is  without  disguise  or  restraint. 
He  gambols ;  he  grins  ;  he  shakes  his  sides  ;  he  points  the  finger ;  he 
turns  up  the  nose  ;  he  shoots  out  the  tongue.  The  manner  of  Swift  is 
the  very  opposite  to  this.  He  moves  laughter,  but  never  joins  in  it. 
He  appears  in  his  works  such  as  he  appeared  in  society.  All  the  com- 
pany are  convulsed  in  merriment,  while  the  dean,  the  author  of  all  the 
mirth,  preserves  an  invincible  gravity,  and  even  sourness  of  aspect ;  and 
gives  utterance  to  the  most  eccentric  and  ludicrous  fancies,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  reading  the  commination-service. 

The  manner  of  Addison  is  as  remote  from  that  of  Swift  as  from  that 
of  Voltaire.  He  neither  laughs  out  like  the  French  wit,  nor,  like  the 
Irish  wit,"*  throws  a  double  portion  of  severity  into  his  countenance  while 
laughing  inly ;  but  preserves  a  look  peculiarly  his  own,  a  look  of  demure 
serenity,  disturbed  only  by  an  arch  sparkle  of  the  eye,  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible elevation  of  the  brow,  an  almost  imperceptible  curl  of  the  lip. 
His  tone  is  never  that  either  of  a  Jack  Pudding  or  of  a  cynic.  It  i& 
that  of  a  gentleman,  in  whom  the  quickest  sense  of  the  ridiculous  is 
constantly  tempered  by  good  nature  and  good  breeding. 

"We  own  that  the  humor  of  Addison  is,  in  our  opinion,  of  a  more 
delicious  flavor  than  the  humor  of  either  Swift  or  Voltaire.  Thus 
much,  at  least,  is  certain,' that  both  Swift  and  Voltaire  have  been  suc- 
cessfully mimicked,  and  that  no  man  has  yet  been  able  to  mimic  Addi- 
son. The  letter  of  the  Abbe  Coyer  to  Pansophe  is  Voltaire  all  over, 
and  imposed,  during  a  long  time,  on  the  academicians  of  Paris.  There 
are  passages  in  Arbuthnot's  satirical  works,  which  we,  at  least,  cannot 
distinguish  from  Swift's  best  writing.  But  of  the  many  eminent  men 
who  have  made  Addison  their  model^  though  many  have  copied  his 
mere  diction  with  happy  effect,  none  has  been  able  to  catch  the  tone  of 
his  pleasantry.  In  the  World,  in  the  Connoisseur,  in  the  Mirror,  in  the 
Lounger,  there  are  numerous  papers  written  in  obvious  imitation  of  his 
Tatlers  and  Spectators.  Most  of  these  papers  have  some  merit ;  many 
are  very  lively  and  amusing ;  but  there  is  not  a  single  one  which  could 
be  passed  off  as  Addison's  on  a  critic  of  the  smallest  perspicacity. 

But  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  Addison  from  Swift,  from 
Voltaire,  from  almost  all  the  other  great  masters  of  ridicule,  is  the  grace, 
the  nobleness,  the  moral  purity,  which  we  find  even  in  his  merriment. 


1  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

Severity,  gradually  hardening  and  darkening  into  misanthropy,  charac- 
terizes the  works  of  Swift.  The  nature  of  Voltaire  was,  indeed,  not 
inhuman ;  but  he  venerated  nothing.  Neither  in  the  masterpieces  of 
art  nor  in  the  purest  examples  of  virtue,  neither  in  the  Great  First 
Cause  nor  in  the  awful  enigma  of  the  grave,  could  he  see  any  thing  but 
subjects  for  drollery.  The  more  solemn  and  august  the  theme,  the 
more  monkey-like  was  his  grimacing  and'  chattering.  The  mirth  of 
Swift  is  the  mirth  of  Mephistophiles  ;  the  mirth  of  Voltaire  is  the  mirth 
of  Puck.  If,  as  Soame  Jennings  oddly  imagined,  a  portion  of  the  happi- 
ness of  seraphim  and  just  men  made  perfect  be  derived  from  an  exquisite 
perception  of  the  ludicrous,  their  mirth  must  surely  be  none  other  than 
the  mu-th  of  Addison  j — a  mirth  consistent  with  tender  compassion  for 
all  that  is  frail,  and  with  profound  reverence  for  all  that  is  sublime. 
Nothing  great,  nothing  amiable,  no  moral  duty,  no  doctrine  of  natural 

Jq        or  revealed  religion,  has  ever  been  associated  by  Addison  with  any 

[  degrading  idea.     His  humanity  is  without  a  parallel  in  literar}-  history. 

^  The  highest  proof  of  human  virtue  is  to  possess  boundless  power  with- 
out abusing  it.  No  kind  of  power  is  more  formidable  than  the  power 
of  making  men  ridiculous  ;  and  that  power  Addison  possessea  in  bound- 
less measure.  IIow  grossly  that  power  was  abused"  by  Swift  and  Vol- 
taire is  well  known.  But  of  Addison  it  may  be  confidently  affirmed 
that  he  has  blackened  no  man's  character,  na}^,  that  it  would  be  diffi- 

s.  \  JVcult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  in  all  the  volumes  which  he  has  left  as  a 
/  A^sjpgle  taunt  which  can  be^  called  unggjtiQrous  orjinkind.  Yet  he  had 
detractors,  whose  malignity  might  have  seemed  to  justify  as  terrible  a 
revenge  as  that  which  men,  not  superior  to  him  in  genius,  wreaked  on 
Bettesworth  and  on  Franc  de  Pompignan.  He  was  a  politician  ;  he  was 
the  best  writer  of  his  party ;  he  lived  in  times  of  fierce  excitement — 
in  times  when  persons  of  high  character  and  station  stooped  to  scurrihty 
such  as  is  now  practised  by  the  basest  of  mankind.  Yet  no  provocation 
and  no  example  could  induce  him  to  return  railing  for  railing.  ^ 

Of  the  service  which  his  essays  rendered  to  morality  it  is  difficult  to 
speak  too  highly.  It  is  true  that,  when  the  Tatler  appeared,  that  age 
of  outrageous  profaneness  and  licentiousness  which  followed  the  Res- 
toration had  passed  away.  Jeremy  Collier  had  shamed  the  theatres 
into  something  which,  compared  with  the  excesses  of  Etherege  and 
Wycherley,  might  be  called  decency.  Yet  there  still  lingered  in  the 
public  mind  a  pernicious  notion  that  there  was  some  connection  between 
genius  and  profligacy — between  the  domestic  virtues  and  the  sullen  for- 
mality of  the  Puritans.     That  error  it  is  the  glory  of  Addison  to  have 

Jy       dispelled,    file  taught  the  nation  that  the  faith  and  the  morality  ot 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  11 

Hale  and  Tillotson  might  be  found  in  company  with  wit  more  sparkling 
than  the  wit  of  Oongreve,  and  with  humor  richer  than  the  humor  of 
Vanbrugh.  So  effectuall}^,  indeed,  did  he  retort  on  vice  the  mockery 
which  had  recently  been  directed  against  virtue,  that,  since  his  time,  the 
open  violation  of  decency  has  always  been  considered  among  us  as  the 
sure  mark  of  a  fool.  And  this  revolution,  the  greatest  and  most  salu- 
tary ever  effected  by  any  satirist,  he  accomplished,  be  it  remembered, 
without  writing  one  personal  lampoon. 

In  the  early  contributions  of  Addison  to  the  Tatler,  his  peculiar 
powers  were  not  fully  exhibited.  Yet  from  the  first  his  superiority  to 
his  coadjutors  was  evident.  Some  of  his  later  Tatlers  are  fully  equal 
to  any  thing  that  he  ever  wrote.  Among  the  portraits,  we  most  admire 
Tom  FoHo,  Ned  Softly,  and  the  Political  Upholsterer.  The  proceedings 
of  the  Court  of  Honor,  the  Thermometer  of  Zeal,  the  story  of  the 
Frozen  Words,  the  Memoirs  of  the  Shilling,  are  excellent  specimens  of 
that  ingenious  and  lively  species  of  fiction  in  which  Addison  excelled  all 
men.  There  is  one  still  better  paper,  of  the  same  class,  but  though 
that  paper,  a  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago,  was  probably  thought 
as  edifying  as  one  of  Smalridge's  sermons,  we  dare  not  indicate  it  to 
the  squeamish  readers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

During  the  session  of  Parliament  which  commenced  in  November, 
1709,  and  which  the  impeachment  of  Sacheverell  has  made  memorable, 
Addison  appears  to  have  resided  in  London.  The  Tatler  was  now  more 
popular  than  any  periodical  paper  had  ever  been ;  and  his  connection 
with  it  was  generally  known.  It  was  not  known,  however,  that  almost 
every  thing  good  in  the  Tatler  was  his.  The  truth  is,  that  the  fifty  or 
sixty  numbers  which  we  owe  to  him  were  not  merely  the  best,  but  so 
decidedly  the  best,  that  any  five  of  them  are  more  valuable  than  all  the 
two  hundred  numbers  in  which  he  had  no  share. 

He  required,  at  this  time,  all  the  solace  which  he  could  derive  from 
literary  success.  The  queen  had  always  disliked  the  whigs.  She  had 
during  some  years  disliked  the  Marlborough  flimily.  But,  reigning  by 
a  disputed  title,  she  could  not  venture  directly  to  oppose  herself  to  a 
majority  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament ;  and,  engaged  as  she  was  in  a 
war,  on  the  event  of  which  her  own  crown  was  staked,  she  could  not 
venture  to  disgrace  a  great  and  successful  general.  But  at  length,  in 
the  year  1710,  the  causes  which  had  restrained  her  from  showing  her 
aversion  to  the  low  church  party  ceased  to  operate.  The  trial  of  Sache- 
verell produced  an  outbreak  of  public  feeling  scarcel}^  less  violent  than 
lose  which  we  can  ourselves  remember  in  1820,  and  in  1831.  The 
country  gentlemen,  the  country  clergymen,  the  rabble  of  the  towns 


lii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

were  all,  for  once,  on  the  same  side.  It  was  clear  that,  if  a  general 
election  took  place  before  the  excitement  abated,  the  tories  would  have 
a  majority.  The  services  of  ^Marlborough  had  been  so  splendid  that 
they  were  no  longer  necessary.  The  queen's  throne  w^as  secure  from 
all  attacks  on  the  part  of  Louis.  Indeed,  it  seemed  much  more  likely 
that  the  English  and  German  armies  would  divide  the  spoils  of  Versailles 
and  j\Iarli,  than  that  a  marshal  of  France  would  bring  back  the  Pre- 
tender to  St.  James's.  The  queen,  acting  by  the  advice  of  Ilarley,  de- 
termined to  dismiss  her  servants.  In  June  the  change  commenced. 
Sunderland  was  the  first  who  fell.  The  tories  exulted  over  his  fall. 
The  whigs  tried,  during  a  few  weeks,  to  persuade  themselves  that  her 
majesty  had  acted  only  from  personal  dislike  to  the  secretary,  and  that 
she  meditated  no  further  alteration.  But,  early  in  August,  Godolphin 
was  surprised  by  a  letter  from  Anne,  which  directed  him  to  break  his 
white  staff.  Even  after  this  event,  the  irresolution  or  dissimulation  of 
Ilarley  kept  up  the  hopes  of  the  whigs  during  another  month  ;  and  then 
the  ruin  became  rapid  and  violent.  The  Parliament  was  dissolved. 
The  ministers  were  turned  out.  The  tories  were  called  to  office.  The 
tide  of  popularity  ran  violently  in  favor  of  the  high  church  party. 
That  party,  feeble  in  the  late  House  of  Commons,  was  now  irresistible. 
The  power  which  the  tories  had  thus  suddenly  acquired,  they  used  with 
blind  and  stupid  ferocity.  The  howl  which  the  whole  pack  set  up  for 
prey  and  for  blood,  appalled  even  him  who  had  roused  and  unchained 
them.  When  at  this  distance  of  time,  we  calmly  review  the  conduct  of 
the  discarded  ministers,  we  cannot  but  feel  a  movement  of  indignation 
at  the  injustice  with  which  they  were  treated.  No  body  of  men  had 
ever  administered  the  government  with  more  energy,  ability,  and  mode- 
ration ;  and  their  success  had  been  proportioned  to  their  wisdom.  They 
had  saved  Holland  and  Germany.  They  had  humbled  France.  They 
had,  as  it  seemed,  all  but  torn  Spain  from  the  house  of  Bourbon.  They 
had  made  England  the  first  power  in  Europe.  At  home  they  had  united 
England  and  Scotland.  I.^hey  had  respected  the  rights  of  conscience 
and  the  liberty  of  the  subject.  They  retired  leaving  their  country  at 
the  height  of  prosperity  and  glory.  And  yet  they  were  pursued  to  their 
retreat  by  such  a  roar  of  obloquy  as  was  never  raised  against  the  gov- 
ernment which  threw  away  thirteen  colonies  ;  or  against  the  government 
which  sent  a  gallant  army  to  perish  in  the  ditches  of  Walcheren. 

None  of  the  whigs  suffered  more  in  the  general  wreck  than  Ajildison. 
He  had  just  sustained  some  heavy  pecuniary  losses,  of  the  nature  of 
which  wo  are  imperfectly  informed,  when  his  secretaryship  was  taken 
from  him.     He  had  reason  to  believe  that  he  should  also  be  deprived  of 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  lui 

the  small  Irish  office  which  he  held  by  patent.  He  had  just  resigned 
his  fellowship.  It  seems  probable  that  he  had  already  ventured  to  raise 
his  eyes  to  a  great  lady  ;  and  that,  while  his  political  friends  were  all- 
powerful,  and  while  his  own  fortunes  were  rising,'  he  had  been,  in  the 
phrase  of  the  romances  which  were  then  fashionable,  permitted  to  hope. 
But  Mr.  Addison,  the  ingenious  writer,  and  Mr.  Addison,  the  chief 
secretary,  were,  in  her  ladyship's  opinion,  two  very  different  persons. 
All  these  calamities  united,  however,  could  not  disturb  the  serene  cheer- 
fulness of  a  mind  conscious  of  innocence,  and  rich  in  its  own  wealth. 
He  told  his  friends,  with  smiling  resignation,  that  they  ought  to  admire 
his  philosophy,  that  he  had  lost  at  once  his  fortune,  his  place,  his  fellow- 
ship, and  his  mistress,  that  he  must  think  of  turning  tutor  again,  and 
yet  that  his  spirits  were  as  good  as  ever. 

He  had  one  consolation.  Of  the  unpopularity  which  his  friends  had 
incurred,  he  had  no  share.  Such  was  the  esteem  with  which  he  was 
regarded,  that  while  the  most  violent  measures  were  taken  for  the  pur- 
pose of  forcing  tory  members  on  whig  corporations,  he  was  returned  to 
Parliament  without  even  a  contest.  Swift,  who  was  now  in  London, 
and  who  had  already  determined  on  quitting  the  whigs,  wrote  to  Stella 
in  these  words  : — "  The  tories  carry  it  among  the  new  members  six  to 
one.  Mr.  Addison's  election  has  passed  easy  and  undisputed ;  and  I 
believe  if  he  had  a  mind  to  be  king,  he  would  hardly  be  refused." 

The  good-will  with  which  the  tories  regarded  Addison  is  the  more 
honorable  to  him,  because  it  had  not  been  purchased  by  any  conces- 
sion on  his  part.  During  the  general  election  he  published  a  political 
journal,  entitled  the  "  Whig  Examiner."  Of  that  journal  it  may  be 
sufScient  to  say  that  Johnson,  in  spite  of  his  strong  political  prejudices, 
pronounced  it  to  be  superior  in  wit  to  any  of  Swift's  writings  on  the 
other  side.  When  it  ceased  to  appear,  Swift,  in  a  letter  to  Stella,  ex- 
pressed his  exultation  at  the  death  of  so  formidable  %n  antagonist. 
"  He  might  well  rejoice,"  says  Johnson,  "  at  the  death  of  that  which  he 
could  not  have  killed."  "  On  no  occasion,"  he  adds,  "  was  the  genius 
of  Addison  more  vigorously  exerted,  and  in  none  did  the  superiori  ty  of 
his  powers  more  evidently  appear." 

The  only  use  wliich  Addison  appears  to  have  made  of  the  favor 
with  which  he  was  regarded  by  the  tories,  was  to  save  some  of  his 
friends  from  the  general  ruin  of  the  whig  party.  He  felt  himself  to  be 
in  a  situation  which  made  it  his  duty  to  take  a  decided  part  in  politics. 
But  the  case  of  Steele  and  of  Ambrose  Phillipps  was  different.  For 
Phillipps,  Addison  even  condescended  to  solicit ;  with  what  success  we 
have  not  ascertained.     Steele  held  two  places.     He  was  gazetteer    and 


liv  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

he  was  also  a  commissioner  of  stamps.  The  gazette  was  taken  from 
him.  But  he  was  suffered  to  retain  his  place  in  the  stamp- office,  on  an 
'.mplied  understanding  that  he  should  not  be  active  against  the  new 
government ;  and  he  was,  during  more  than  two  years,  induced  by  Ad- 
dison to  observe  this  armistice  with  tolerable  fidelity, 
v^  Isaac  Bickerstaff  accordingly  became  silent  upon  politics,  and  the 
article  of  news,  which  had  once  formed  about  one-third  of  his  paper, 
altogether  disappeared.  The  Tatler  had  completely  changed  its  char- 
acter. It  was  now  nothing  but  a  series  of  essays  on  books,  morals,  and 
manners.  Steele,  therefore,  resolved  to  bring  it  to  a  close,  and  to  com- 
mence a  new  work  on  an  improved  plan.  It  was  announced  that  this 
new  work  would  be  published  daily.  The  undertaking  was  generally 
regarded  as  bold,  or  rather  rash;  but  the  event  amply  justified  the  con- 
fidence with  which  Steele  relied  on  the  fertility  of  Addison's  genius. 
On  the  2d  of  January,  17  il,  appeared  the  last  Tatler.  On  the  1st  of 
lilarch  following  appeared  the  first  of  an  incomparable  series  of  papers, 
containing  observations  on  life  and  literature  by  an  imaginary  spec- 
tator. 

The  Spectator  himself  was  conceived  and  drawn  by  Addison  ;  and 
it  is  not  easy  to  doubt  that  the  portrait  was  meant  to  be  in  some  fea- 
tures a  likeness  of  the  painter.  The  Spectator  is  a  gentleman  who,  after 
passing  a  studious  youth  at  the  university,  has  travelled  on  classic 
■^ound,  and  has  bestowed  much  attention  on  curious  points  of  antiquity. 
He  has,  on  his  return,  fixed  his  residence  in  London,  and  has  observed 
all  the  forms  of  life  which  are  to  be  found  in  that  great  city ; — has  daily 
listened  to  the  wits  of  Will's,  has  smoked  with  the  philosophers  of 
the  Grecian,  and  has  mingled  with  the  parsons'  at  Child's,  and  with 
the  politicians  at  the  St.  James's.  In  the  morning  he  often  listens  to 
the  hum  of  the  Exchange ;  in  the  evening  his  face  is  constantly  to  be 
seen  in  the  pit  of  Drury-lane  theatre.  But  an  insurmountable  bashful- 
ness  prevents  him  from  opening  his  mouth,  except  in  a  small  circle  of 
intimate  friends. 

These  friends  were  first  sketched  by  Steele.  -Four  of  the  club,  the 
templar,  the  clergyman,  the  soldier,  and  the  merchant,  were  uninterest- 
ing figures,  fit  only  for  a  background.  But  the  other  two,  an  old  coun- 
try baronet,  and  an  old  town  rake,  though  not  delineated  vaih  a  very 
delicate  pencil,  had  some  good  strokes.  Addison  took  the  rude  outlines 
into  his  own  hands,  retouched  them,  colored  them,  and  is  in  truth  the 
creator  of  the. Sir  Roger  de  Covcrley  and  the  Will  Honeycomb  with 
whom  we  are  all  familiar. 

The  plan  of  the  Spectator  must  be  allowed  to  be  both  original  and 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  Iv 

eminently  happy.  Eveiy  valuable  essay  in  the  series  may  be  read  with 
pleasure  separately ;  yet  the  five  or  six  hundred  essays  form  a  whole, 
and  a  whole  which  has  the  interest  of  a  novel.  It  must  be  remembered, 
toOj  that  at  that  time,  no  novel,  giving  a  lively  and  powerful  picture  of 
the  common  life  and  manners  of  England  had  appeared.  Richardson 
was  working  as  a  compositor.  Fielding  was  robbing  bird's  nests. 
Smollett  was  not  yet  born.  The  narrative,  therefore,  which  connects 
together  the  Spectator's  essays,  gave  to  our  ancestors  their  first  taste 
of  an  exquisite  and  untried  pleasure.  That  narrative  was  indeed  con- 
structed with  no  art  or  labor.  The  events  were  such  events  as  occur 
every  day.  Sir  Roger  comes  up  to  town  to  see  Eugenio,  as  the  worthy 
baronet  always  calls  Prince  Eugene,  goes  with  the  Si^ectator  on  the 
water  to  Spring  Gardens,  walks  among  the  tombs  in  the  abbey,  is  fright- 
ened by  the  Mohawks,  but  conquers  his  apprehension  so  far  as  to  go  to 
the  theatre,  when  the  "  Distressed  Mother  "  is  acted.  The  Spectator 
pays  a  visit  in  the  summer  to  Coverley  Hall,  is  charmed  with  the  old 
house,  the  old  butler,  and  the  old  chaplain,  eats  a  Jack  caught  by  Will 
Wimble,  rides  to  the  assizes,  and  hears  a  point  of  law  discussed  by  Tom 
Touchy.  At  last  a  letter  from  the  honest  butler  brings  to  the  club  the 
news  that  Sir  Roger  is  dead.  Will  Honeycomb  marries  and  reforms  at 
sixty.  The  club  breaks  up ;  and  the  Spectator  resigns  his  functions. 
Such  events  can  hardly  be  said  to  form  a  plot,  yet  they  are  related  with 
such  truth,  such  grace,  such  wit,  such  humor,  such  pathos,  such  know- 
ledge of  the  human  heart,  such  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world, 
that  they  charm  us  on  the  hundredth  perusal.  We  have  not  the  least 
doubt  that,  if  Addison  had  written  a  novel,  on  an  extensive  plan,  it 
would  have  been  superior  to  any  that  we  possess.  As  it  is,  he  is  entitled 
to  be  considered,  not  only  as  the  greatest  of  the  English  essajasts.  but 
as  the  forerunner  of  the  great  English  novelists. 

We  say  this  of  Addison  alone ;  for  Addison  is  the  Spectator.  About 
three-sevenths  of  the  work  are  his ;  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,  that 
his  first  essay  is  as  good  as  the  best  essay  of  any  of  his  coadjutors.  His 
best  essays  approach  near  to  absolute  perfection ;  nor  is  their  excellence 
more  wonderful  than  their  variety.  His  invention  never  seems  to  flag ; 
nor  is  he  ever  under  the  necessity  of  repeating  himself,  or  of  wearing 
out  a  subject.  There  are  no  dregs  in  his  wine.  He  regales  us  after  the 
fashion  of  that  prodigal  nabob  who  held  that  there  was  only  one  good 
glass  in  a  bottle.  As  soon  as  we  have  tasted  the  first  sparkling  foam 
of  a  jest,  it  is  withdrawn,  and  a  fresh  glass  of  nectar  is  at  our  lips.  On 
the  Monday  we  have  an  allegory  as  lively  and  ingenious  as  Lucian's 
Auction  of  Lives ;  on  the  Tuesday  an  eastern  apologue  as  richly  colored 


ItI  life      and      writings      of      ADDISON. 

as  the  Tales  of  Scherezade  ;  on  the  Wednesday,  a  character  described 
with  the  skill  of  La  Bruyerej  on  the  Thursday,  a  scene  from  common 
life  equal  to  the  best  chapters  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ;  on  the  Friday, 
some  sly  Horatian  pleasantry  on  the  fashionable  follies — on  hoops, 
patches,  or  puppet-shows ;  and  on  the  Saturday  a  religious  meditation 
which  will  bear  a  comparison  with  the  finest  passages  in  Massillon. 

It  is  dangerous  to  select  where  there  is  so  much  that  deserves  the 
highest  praise.  We  will  venture,  however,  to  say,  that  any  persons 
who  wish  to  form  a  just  notion  of  the  extent  and  vaiiety  of  Addison's 
powers,  will  do  well  to  read  at  one  sitting  the  following  papers  : — the 
two  Visits  to  the  Abbey,  the  Visit  to  the  Exchange,  the  Journal  of  the 
Retired  Citizen,  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  the  Transmigrations  of  Pug  the 
Monkey,  and  the  Death  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 

The  least  valuable  of  Addison's  contributions  to  the  Spectator  are, 
in  the  judgment  of  our  age,  his  critical  papers.  Yet  his  critical  papers 
are  always  luminous,  and  often  ingenious.  The  veiy  worst  of  them 
must  be  regarded  as  creditable  to  him,  when  the  character  of  the  school 
in  which  he  had  been  tiained  is  fairly  considered.  The  best  of  them 
were  much  too  good  for  his  readers.  In  truth,  he  was  not  so  far  behind 
our  generation  as  he  was  before  his  own.  No  essays  in  the  Spectator 
were  more  censured  and  derided  than  those  in  which  he  raised  his  voice 
against  the  contempt  with  which  our  fine  old  ballads  were  regarded  ; 
and  showed  the  scoffers  that  the  same  gold  which,  burnished  and  polish- 
ed, gives  lustre  to  the  ^neid  and  the  Odes  of  Horace,  is  mingled  with 
the  rude  dross  of  Chevy  Chace. 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  success  of  the  Spectator  should  have  been 
such  as  no  similar  work  has  ever  obtained.  The  number  of  copies 
daily  distributed  was  at  fiist  three  thousand.  It  subsequently  increas- 
ed, and  had  risen  to  near  four  thousand  when  the  stamp-tax  was 
imposed.  That  tax  was  fatal  to  a  crowd  of  journals.  The  Spectator, 
however,  stood  its  ground,  doubled  its  price,  and  though  its  circulation 
fell  off,  still  yielded  a  large  revenue  both  to  the  state  and  to  the  authors. 
For  particular  papers,  the  demand  was  immense ;  of  some,  it  is  said 
twenty  thousand  copies  were  required.  But  this  was  not  all.  To 
have  the  Spectator  served  up  every  morning  with  the  bohea  and  rolls, 
was  a  luxury  for  the  few ;  the  majority  were  content  to  wait  till  essays 
enough  had  appeared  to  form  a  volume.  Ten  thousand  copies  of  each 
volume  were  immediately  taken  off,  and  new  editions  were  called  for. 
It  must  be  remembered,  that  the  population  of  England  was  then  hardly 
a  third  of  what  it  now  is.  The  number  of  Englishmen  who  were  in  the 
habit  of  reading,  was  probably  not  a  sixth  of  what  it  now  is.     A  shop- 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  Ivii 

keeper  or  a  farmer  who  found  any  pleasure  in  literature,  was  a  rarity. 
Nay,  there  was  doubtless  more  than  one  knight  of  the  shire  whose 
country-seat  did  not  contain  ten  books — receipt-books,  and  books  on 
farriery  included.  Under  these  circumstances,  the  sale  of  the  Spectator 
must  be  considered  as  indicating  a  popularity  quite  as  great  as  that  of 
*^^e  most  successful  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Mr.  Dickens  in  our 
vn  time. 

At  the  close  of  1712,  the  Spectator  ceased  to  appear.  It  wa^  proba- 
bly felt  that  the  short-faced  gentleman  and  his  club  had  been  long 
enough  before  the  town ;  and  that  it  was  time  to  withdraw  them,  and 
to  replace  them  by  a  new  set  of  characters.  In  a  few  weeks  the  first 
number  of  the  "Guardian"  was  published.  But  the  Guardian  was 
unfortunate  both  in  its  birth  and  in  its  death.  It  began  in  dulness 
and  disappeared  in  a  tempest  of  faction.  The  original  plan  was  bad. 
Addison  contributed  nothing  till  sixty-six  numbers  had  appeared  ;  and 
it  was  then  impossible  even  for  him  to  make  the  Guardian  what  the 
Spectator  had  been.  Nestor  Ironside  and  the  Miss  Lizards  were  people 
to  whom  even  he  could  impart  no  interest.  He  could  only  furnish 
some  excellent  little  essays,  both  serious  and  comic ;  and  this  he  did. 

Why  Addison  gave  no  assistance  to  the  Guardian  during  the  first 
two  months  of  its  existence,  is  a  question  which  has  puzzled  the  editors 
and  biographers,  but  which  seems  to  us  to  admit  of  a  very  easy  solu- 
tion.    He  was  then  engaged  in  bringing  his  Cato  on  the  stage. 

The  first  four  acts  of  this  drama  had  been  lying  in  his  desk  since 
his  return  from  Italy.  His  modest  and  sensitive  nature  shrank  from 
the  risk  of  a  public  and  shameful  failure ;  and,  though  all  who  saw  the 
manuscript  were  loud  in  praise,  some  thought  it  possible  that  an 
audience  might  become  impatient  even  of  very  good  rhetoric ;  and  ad- 
vised Addison  to  print  the  play  without  hazarding  a  representation. 
At  length,  after  many  fits  of  apprehension,  the  poet  yielded  to  the 
urgency  of  his  political  friends,  who  hoped  that  the  public  would  dis- 
cover some  analogy  between  the  followers  of  Caesar  and  the  tories, 
between  Sempronius  and  the  apostate  whigs,  between  Cato,  struggling 
to  the  last  for  the  liberties  of  Rome,  and  the  band  of  patriots  who  still 
stood  firm  round  Halifax  and  Wharton. 

Addison  gave  the  play  to  the  managers  of  Drury-lane  theatre, 
without  stipulating  for  any  advantage  to  himself.  They,  therefore 
thought  themselves  bound  to  spare  no  cost  in  scenery  and  dresses. 
The  decorations,  it  is  true,  would  not  have  pleased  the  skilful  eye  of  Mr, 
Macready.  Juba's  waistcoat  blazed  with  gold  lace  ;  Marcia's  hoop  was 
worthy  of  a  duchess  on  the  birthday  j  and  Cato  wore  a  wig  worth  fifty 


Wiii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON 

guineas.  The  prologue  was  written  by  Pope,  and  is  undoubtedly  a 
dignified  and  spirited  composition.  The  part  of  the  hero  was  excellent- 
ly played  by  Booth.  Steele  undertook  to  pack  a  house.  The  boxes 
were  in  a  blaze  with  the  stars  of  the  peers  in  opposition.  The  pit  was 
crowded  with  attentive  and  friendly  listeners  from  the  inns  of  court 
and  the  literary  coffee-houses.  Sir  Gilbert  Ileathcote,  governor  of  the 
Bank  of  England,  was  at  the  head  of  a  powerful  body  of  auxiliaries 
from  the  city ; — warm  men  and  true  whigs,  but  better  known  at  Jona- 
than's and  Garrowy's  than  in  the  haunts  of  wits  and  critics. 

These  precautions  were  quite  superfluous.  The  tories,  as  a  body, 
regarded  Addison  with  no  unkind  feelings.  Nor  was  it  for  their 
interest, — professing,  as  they  did,  profound  reverence  for  law  and  pre- 
scription, and  abhorrence  both  of  popular  insurrections  and  of  standing 
armies — to  appropriate  to  themselves  reflections  thrown  on  the 
great  military  chief  and  demagogue,  who,  with  the  support  of  the 
legions  and  of  the  common  people,  subverted  all  the  ancient  institutions 
of  his  country.  Accordingly,  every  shout  that  was  raised  by  the 
members  of  the  Kit-Cat  was  re-echoed  by  the  high  churchmen  of  the 
October ;  and  the  curtain  at  length  fell  amidst  thunders  of  unanimous 
applause. 

The  delight  and  admiration  of  the  town  were  described  by  the 
Guardian  in  terms  which  we  might  attribute  to  partiality,  were  it  not 
that  the  Examiner,  the  organ  of  the  ministry,  held  similar  language. 
The  torieSj  indeed,  found  much  to  sneer  at  in  the  conduct  of  their 
opponents.  Steele  had  on  this,  as  on  other  occasions,  shown  more  zeal 
than  taste  or  judgment.  The  honest  citizens  who  marched  under  the 
orders  of  Sir  Gibby,  as  he  was  facetiously-  called,  probably  knew 
better  when  to  buy  and  sell  stock  than  when  to  clap  and  when  to 
hiss  at  a  play  ;  and  incurred  some  ridicule  by  making  the  hypocritical 
Sempronius  their  favorite,  and  by  giving  to  his  insincere  rants 
louder  plaudits  than  they  bestowed  on  the  temperate  eloquence  of  Cato. 
Wharton,  too,  who  had  the  incredible  effrontery  to  applaud  the  lines 
about  flying  from  prosperous  vice  and  from  the  power  of  impious  men 
to  a  private  station,  did  not  escape  the  sarcasms  of  those  who  justly 
thought  that  he  could  fly  from  nothing  more  vicious  or  impious  than 
himself.  The  epilogue,  which  was  written  by  Garth,  a  zealous  whig, 
was  severely  and  not  unreasonably  censured  as  ignoble  and  out  of  place. 
But  Addison  was  described,  even  by  the  bitterest  tory  writers,  as  a  gen- 
tleman of  wit  and  virtue,  and  in  whose  friendship  many  persons  of  both 
parties  vCere  happy,  and  whose  name  ought  not  to  be  mixed  up  with  fac- 
tious squabbles. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  lix 

Of  the  jests  by  which  the  triumph  of  the  whig  party  was  disturbed, 
the  most  severe  and  happy  was  Bolingbroke's.  Between  two  acts,  ho 
sent  for  Booth  to  his  box,  and  presented  him,  before  the  whole  theatre, 
•with  a  purse  of  fifty  guineas,  for  defending  the  cause  of  liberty  so  well 
against  a  perpetual  dictator. 

It  was  April ;  and  in  April,  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago,  the 
London  season  was  thought  to  be  far  advanced.  During  a  whole  mouth, 
however,  Cato  was  performed  to  overflowing  houses,  and  brought  into 
the  treasury  of  the  theatre  twice  the  gains  of  an  ordinary  spring.  In 
the  summer,  the  Drury  Lane  company  went  down  to  act  at  Oxford,  and 
there,  before  an  audience  which  retained  an  affectionate  remembrance 
of  Addison's  accomplishments  and  virtues,  his  tragedy  was  acted  during 
several  days.  The  gownsmen  began  to  besiege  the  theatre  in  the  fore- 
noon, and  by  one  in  the  afternoon  all  the  seats  were  filled. 

About  the  merits  of  the  piece  which  had  so  extraordinary  an  effect, 
the  public,  we  suppose  has  made  up  its  mind.  To  compare  it  with  the 
masterpieces  of  the  Attic  stage,  with  the  great  English  dramas  of  the 
time  of  Elizabeth,  or  even  with  the  productions  of  Schiller's  manhood, 
would  be  absurd  indeed.  Yet  it  contains  excellent  dialogue  and  decla- 
mation ;  and,  among  plays  fashioned  on  the  French  model,  must  be  al- 
lowed to  rank  high ;  not  indeed  with  Athalie,  Zaire,  or  Saul,  but,  we 
think,  not  below  Cinna ;  and  certainly  above  any  other  English  tragedy 
of  the  same  school,  above  many  of  the  plays  of  Corneille,  above  many 
of  the  plays  of  Voltaire  and  Alfieri,  and  above  some  plays  of  Racine. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  we  have  little  doubt  that  Cato  did  as  much  as  the 
Tatlers,  Spectators,  and  Freeholders  united,  to  raise  Addison's  fame 
among  his  contemporaries. 

The  modesty  and  good  nature  of  the  successful  dramatist  had  tamed 
even  the  malignity  of  faction.  But  literary  envy,  it  should  seem,  is  a 
fiercer  passion  than  party  spirit.  It  was  by  a  zealous  whig  that  the 
fiercest  attack  on  the  whig  tragedy  was  made.  John  Dennis  published 
Remarks  on  Cato,  which  were  written  with  some  acuteness  and  with 
much  coarseness  and  asperity.  But  Addison  neither  defended  himself 
nor  retaliated.  On  many  points  he  had  an  excellent  defence ;  and  no- 
thing would  have  been  easier  than  to  retaliate ;  for  Dennis  had  written 
bad  odes,  bad  tragedies,  bad  comedies :  he  had,  moreover,  a  larger  share 
than  most  men  of  those  infirmities  and  eccentricities  which  excite  laugh: 
ter ;  and  Addison's  power  of  turning  either  an  absurd  book  or  an  ab- 
surd man  into  ridicule  was  unrivalled.  Addison,  however,  serenely  con- 
scious of  his  superiority,  looked  with  pity  on  his  assailant,  whose  temper. 


iZ  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

naturally  irritable  and  gloomy,  had  been  soured  by  want,  by  controver- 
sy, and  by  literary  failures. 

But  among  the  young  candidates  for  Addison's  favor  there  was  one 
distinguished  by  talents  above  the  rest,  and  distinguished,  we  fear,  not 
less  by  malignity  and  insincerity.  Pope  was  only  twenty-five.  But 
his  powers  had  expanded  to  their  full  maturity ;  and  his  best  poem,  the 
"  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  had  recently  been  published.  Of  his  genius.  Ad- 
dison had  always  expressed  high  admiration.  But  Addison  had  clearly 
discerned,  what  might  indeed  have  been  discerned  by  an  eye  less  pene- 
trating than  his,  that  the  diminutive,  crooked,  sickly  boy  was  eager  to 
revenge  himself  on  societ}'-  for  the  unkindness  of  nature.  In  the  Spec- 
tator, the  Essay  on  Criticism  had  been  praised  with  cordial  warmth ; 
but  a  gentle  hint  had  been  added,  that  the  writer  of  such  an  excellent 
poem  would  have  done  well  to  avoid  ill-natured  personalities.  Pope, 
though  evidently  more  galled  by  the  censure  than  gratified  by  the  praise, 
returned  thanks  for  the  admonition,  and  promised  to  profit  by  it.  The 
two  writers  continued  to  exchange  civilities,  counsel,  and  small  good 
offices.  Addison  publicly  extolled  Pope's  miscellaneous  pieces,  and 
Pope  furnished  Addison  with  a  prologue.  This  did  not  last  long.  Pope 
hated  Dennis,  whom  he  had  injured  without  provocation.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  Remarks  on  Cato,  gave  the  irritable  poet  an  opportunity  of 
venting  his  malice  under  the  show  of  friendship  j  and  such  an  opportu- 
nity could  not  but  be  welcome  to  a  nature  which  was  implacable  in  en- 
mity, and  which  always  preferred  the  tortuous  to  the  straight  path. 
He  published,  accordingly,  the  "  Narrative  of  the  Frenzy  of  John  Den- 
nis." But  Pope  had  mistaken  his  powers.  He  was  a  great  master  of 
invective  and  sarcasm.  He  could  dissect  a  character  in  terse  and  sono- 
rous couplets,  brilliant  with  antithesis.  But  of  dramatic  talent  he  was 
altogether  destitute.  If  he  had  written  a  lampoon  on  Dennis,  such  as 
that  on  Atticus,  or  that  on  Sporus,  the  old  grumbler  would  have  been 
crushed.  But  Po^  writing  dialogue  resembled — to  borrow  Horace's 
magery  and  his  own — a  wolf  which,  instead  of  biting,  should  take  to 
Kicking,  or  a  monkey  which  should  try  to  sting.  The  Narrative  is  ut- 
terly contemptible.  Of  argument  there  is  not  even  the  show  ;  and  the 
jests  are  such  as,  if  they  were  introduced  in  a  farce,  would  call  forth 
the  hisses  of  the  shilling  gallery.  Dennis  raves  about  the  drama  ;  and 
the  nurse  thinks  that  he  is  calling  for  a  dram.  "  There  is,"  he  cries, 
"  no  peripetia  in  the  tragedy,  no  change  of  fortune,  no  change  at  all." 
"Pray,  good  sir,  be  not  angry,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  I'll  fetch  change.'- 
This  is  not  exactly  the  pleasantry  of  Addison. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Addison  saw  through  this  officious  zeal 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  1x1 

and  felt  himself  deeply  aggrieved  by  it.  So  foolish  and  spiteful  a 
pamphlet  could  do  him  no  good,  and,  if  he  were  thought  to  have  any 
hand  in  it,  must  do  him  harm.  Gifted  with  incomparable  powers  of 
ridicule,  he  had  never,  even  in  self-defence,  used  those  powers  inhumanly 
or  uncourteously ;  and  he  was  not  disposed  to  let  others  make  his  fame 
and  his  interests  a  pretext  under  which  they  might  commit  outrages 
from  which  he  had  himself  constantly  abstained.  He  accordingly  de- 
clared that  he  had  no  concern  in  the  "  Narrative,"  that  he  disapproved 
of  it,  and  that,  if  he  answered  the  "  Remarks,"  he  would  answer  them 
like  a  gentleman ;  and  he  took  care  to  communicate  this  to  Dennis. 
Pope  was  bitterly  mortified  ;  and  to  this  transaction  we  are  inclined  to 
ascribe  the  hatred  with  which  he  ever  after  regarded  Addison. 

In  September,  1713,  the  Guardian  ceased  to  appear.  Steele  had 
gone  mad  about  politics.  A  general  election  had  just  taken  place  ;  he 
had  been  chosen  member  for  Stockbridge,  and  fully  expected  to  play  a 
first  part  in  Parliament.  The  immense  success  of  the  Tatler  and  Spec- 
tator had  turned  his  head.  He  had  been  the  editor  of  both  those  papers  j 
and  was  not  aware  how  entirely  they  owed  their  influence  and  popu- 
larity to  the  genius  of  his  friend.  His  spirits,  always  violent,  were 
now  excited  by  vanity,  ambition,  and  faction,  to  such  a  pitch  that  he 
every  day  committed  some  offence  against  good  sense  and  good  taste. 
All  the  discreet  and  moderate  members  of  his  own  party  regretted  and 
condemned  his  folly.  '•  I  am  in  a  thousand  troubles,"  Addison  wrote, 
"  about  poor  Dick,  and  wish  that  his  zeal  for  the  public  may  not  be 
ruinous  to  himself.  But  he  has  sent  me  word  that  he  is  determined  to 
go  on,  and  that  any  advice  I  may  give  him  in  this  particular  will  have 
no  weight  with  him." 

Steele  set  up  a  political  paper  called  "  The  Englishman,"  which,  as 
it  was  not  supported  by  contributions  from  Addison,  completely  failed. 
B}'  this  work,  by  some  other  writings  of  the  same  kind,  and  by  the 
airs  which  he  gave  himself  at  the  first  meeting  of  the  new  Parliament, 
he  made  the  tories  so  angry  that  they  determined  to  expel  him.  The 
whigs  stood  by  him  gallantly ;  but  were  unable  to  save  him.  The 
vote  of  expulsion  was  regarded  by  all  dispassionate  men  as  a  tyrannical 
exercise  of  the  power  of  the  majority.  But  Steele's  violence  and  folly, 
though  they  by  no  means  justified  the  steps  which  his  enemies  took, 
had  completely  disgusted  his  friends ;  nor  did  he  ever  regain  the  place 
which  he  had  held  in  the  public  estimation. 

Addison  about  this  time  conceived  the  design  of  adding  an  eighth 
volume  to  the  Spectator.  In  June,  1714,  the  first  number  of  the  new 
series  appeared,  and  during  about  six  months,  three  papers  were  pub- 


Ixii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

lished  weekly.  Nothing  can  be  more  striking  than  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  Englishman  and  the  eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator — be- 
tween Steele  without  Addison,  and  Addison  without  Steele.  The 
" Englishman •' is  forgotten;  the  eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator  con- 
tains, perhaps,  the  finest  essaj^s,  both  serious  and  playful,  in  the  Eng- 
lish language. 

Before  this  volume  was  completed,  the  death  of  Anne  produced  an 
entire  change  in  the  administration  of  public  affairs.  The  blow  fell 
suddenly.  It  found  the  tory  party  distracted  by  internal  feuds,  and 
unprepared  for  any  great  effort.  Harlcy  had  just  been  disgraced.  Bo- 
lingbroke,  it  was  supposed,  would  be  the  chief  minister.  But  the 
queen  was  on  her  deathbed  before  the  white  staff"  had  been  given,  and 
her  last  public  act  was  to  deliver  it  with  a  feeble  hand  to  the  Duke  of 
Shrewsbury.  The  emergency  produced  a  coalition  between  all  sections 
of  public  men  who  were  attached  to  the  Protestant  succession.  George 
the  First  was  proclaimed  without  opposition.  A  council,  in  which  the 
leading  whigs  had  seats,  took  the  direction  of  aff'airs  till  the  new  king 
should  airive.  The  first  act  of  the  lords  justices  was  to  appoint  Addi- 
son their  secretary. 

There  is  an  idle  tradition  that  he  was  directed  to  prepare  a  letter  to 
the  king,  that  he  could  not  satisfy  himself  as  to  the  style  of  this  com- 
position, and  that  the  lords  justices  called  in  a  clerk  who  at  once  did 
what  was  wanted.  It  is  not  strange  that  a  story  so  flattering  to  medi- 
ocrity should  be  popular ;  and  we  are  sorry  to  deprive  dunces  of  their 
consolation.  But  the  truth  jnust  be  told.  It  was  well  observed  by 
Sir  James  Mackintosh,  whose  knowledge  of  these  times  was  unequalled, 
that  Addison  never,  in  any  official  document,  affected  wit  or  eloquence  j 
and  that-  his  despatches  are,  without  exception,  remarkable  for  unpre- 
tending simplicity.  Every  body  who  knows  with  what  ease  Addison's 
finest  essays  were  produced,  must  be  convinced  that  if  well-turned 
phrases  had  been  wanted  he  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  finding 
them.  We  are,  however,  inclined  to  believe  that  the  story  is  not  abso- 
lutely without  a  foundation.  It  may  well  be  that  Addison  did  not 
know,  till  he  had  consulted  experienced  clerks,  who  remembered  the 
times  when  William  was  absent  on  the  Continent,  in  what  form  a  letter 
from  the  council  of  regency  to  the  king  ought  to  be  drawn.  We  think 
it  very  likely  that  the  ablest  statesmen  of  our  time.  Lord  John  Bussell, 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  Lord  Palmerston,  for  example,  would,  in  similar  cir- 
cumstances, be  found  quite  as  ignorant.  ■  Every  oflBce  has  some  little 
mysteries  which  the  dullest  man  may  learn  with  a  little  attention,  and 
which  the  greatest  man  cannot  possibly  know  by  intuition.     One  paper 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  Ixlu 

must  be  signed  by  the  chief  of  the  departmentj  another  by  his  deputy. 
To  a  third  the  royal  sign-manual  is  necessary.  One  communication  is 
to  be  registered,  and  another  is  not.  One  sentence  must  be  in  black 
ink  and  another  in  red  ink.  If  the  ablest  secretary  for  Ireland  were 
moved  to  the  Indian  board,  if  the  ablest  president  of  the  India  board 
were  moved  to  the  War-Office,  he  would  require  instruction  on  points 
like  these  ;  and  we  do  not  doubt  that  Addison  required  such  instruction 
when  he  became,  for  the  first  time,  secretary  to  the  lords  justices. 

George  the  First  took  possession  of  his  kingdom  without  opposition. 
A  new  ministry  was  formed,  and  a  new  parliament  favorable  to  the 
whigs  chosen.  Sunderland  was  appointed  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland, 
and  Addison  again  went  to  Dublin  as  chief  secretary. 

At  Dublin  Swift  resided,  and  there  was  much  speculation  about  the 
way  in  which  the  dean  and  the  secretary  would  behave  towards  each 
other.  The  relations  which  existed  "between  these  remarkable  men 
form  an  interesting  and  pleasing  portion  of  literary  history.  They  had 
early  attached  themselves  to  the  same  political  party  and  to  the  same 
patrons.  "While  Anne's  whig  ministry  was  in  power,  the  visits  of 
Swift  to  London  and  the  official  residence  of  Addison  in  Ireland  had 
given  them  opportunities  of  knowing  each  other.  They  were  the  two 
shrewdest  observers  of  their  age.  But  their  observations  on  each  other 
had  led  them  to  favorable  conclusions.  Swift  did  full  justice  to  the 
rare  powers  of  conversation  which  were  latent  under  the  bashful  de- 
portment of  Addison.  Addison,  on  the  other  hand,  discerned  much 
good  nature  under  the  severe  look  and  manner  of  Swift ;  and,  in- 
deed, the  Swift  of  1708  and  the  Swift  of  1738  were  two  very  different 
men. 

But  the  paths  of  the  two  friends  diverged  widely.  The^whig  states- 
men loaded  Addison  with.._solid  benefits.  They  praised  Swift,  asked 
him  to  dinner,  and  did  nothuig  more  for  him.  His  profession  laid  them 
under  a  difficulty.  In  the  state  they  could  not  promote  him ;  and 
they  had  reason  to  fear  that,  by  bestowing  preferment  in  the  church  on 
the  author  of  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  they  might  give  scandal  to  the  public, 
which  had  no  high  opinion  of  their  orthodoxy.  He  did  not  make  fair 
allowance  for  the  difficulties  which  prevented  Halifax  and  Somers  from 
serving  him;  thought  himself  an  ill-used  man;  sacrificed  honor  and 
consistency  to  revenge  ;  joined  the  tories,  and  became  their  most  for- 
midable champion.  He  soon  found,  however,  that  his  old  friends  were 
less  to  blame  than  he  had  supposed.  The  dislike  with  which  the  queen 
and  the  heads  of  the  church  regarded  him  was  insurmountable ;  and 
it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  obtained  an  ecclesiastical 


Ixiv  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

dignity  of  no  great  value,  on  condition  of  fixing  his  residence  in  a  coun- 
try which  he  detested. 

Difference  of  political  opinion  had  produced,  not,  indeed,  a  quarrel, 
but  a  coolness  between  Swift  and  Addison.  They  at  length  ceased 
altogether  to  see  each  other.  Yet  there  was  between  them  a  tacit 
compact  like  that  between  the  hereditary  guests  in  the  Iliad. 

"  E^x* <*  5*  a\\r,\a)v  aXedo/xeda  Kai  St  6fii\ov ' 
TloWol  ix\v  yap  e'/xot  Tpieus  KXeiToi  r   iiriKOvpoi, 
Krelveiu,  tv  «e  ^(6$  yt  irop-fj  ica/.  voarai  Kix^id), 
TloWol  S"  ad  <roi  'Axaiol,  iyaipe/xev,  tu  kc  Svvrjai. 

It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  who  calumniated  and  insulted  no- 
body, should  not  have  calumniated  or  insulted  Swift.  But  it  is  re- 
markable that  Swift,^°  to  whom  neither  genius  nor  virtue  was  sacred, 
and  who  generally  seemed  to  find,  like  most  other  renegades,  a  pecu- 
liar pleasure  in  attacking  old  friends,  should  have  shown  so  much  re- 
spect and  tenderness  to  Addison. 

Fortune  had  now  changed.  The  accession  of  the  house  of  Hanover 
had  secured  in  England  the  liberties  of  the  people,  and  in  Ireland  the 
dominion  of  the  Protestant  caste.  To  that  caste  Swift  was  more  odious 
than  any  other  man.  He  was  hooted  and  even  pelted  in  the  streets  of 
Dublin ;  and  could  not  venture  to  ride  along  the  Strand  for  his  health 
without  the  attendance  of  armed  servants.  Many  whom  he  had  for- 
merly served  now  libelled  and  insulted  him.  At  this  time  Addison  ar- 
rived. He  had  been  advised  not  to  show  the  smallest  civility  to  the 
dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  But  he  answered  with  admirable  spirit,  that  it 
might  be  necessary  for  men  whose  fidelity  to  their  party  was  suspected 
to  hold  no  intercourse  with  political  opponents ;  but  that  one  who  had 
been  a  steady  whig  in  the  worst  times  might  venture,  when  the  good 
cause  was  triumphant,  to  shake  hands  with  an  old  friend  who  was  one 
of  the  vanquished  tories.  His  kindness  was  soothing  to  the  proud  and 
cruelly  wounded  spirit  of  Swift ;  and  the  two  great  satirists  resumed 
their  habits  of  friendly  intercourse. 

Those  associates  of  Addison,  whose  political  opinions  agreed  with  his, 
shared  his  good  fortune.     He  took  Tickell  with  him  to  Ireland.     He 

10  But  it  ia  remarkable  Viat  Sw\ft  (p.  162).  Would  it  not  have  been  fair  to  liave  deduced 
from  tills  circumstance  something  rather  more  favorable  to  Swift?  But  in  this  too  Mr 
Macaiilay  is  singularly  unjust  When  lie  speaks  of  Swift  in  1708  and  Swift  in  173S,  he 
neglects  to  add  that  during  at  least  twenty  of  those  tliirty  years  Swift  had  been  suffering 
from  the  gradual  inroads  of  that  disease  which  at  hust  reduced  him  to  idiocy.  There  can 
be  no  greater  injustice  than  to  compare  the  temper  of  a  sick  man  with  that  of  a  man  in 
fiound  health.— G. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  1x7 

procured  for  Budgell  a  lucrative  place  in  the  same  kingdom.  Ambrose 
Phillipps  was  provided  for  in  England.  Steele  had  injured  himself  so 
much  by  his  eccentricity  and  perverseness.  that  he.;Obtained  but  a  very 
small  part  of  what  he  thought  his  due.  He  was,  however,  knighted. 
He  had  a  place  in  the  household ;  and  he  subsequently  received  other 
marks  of  favor  from  the  court. 

Addison  did  not  remain  long  in  Ireland.  In  1715  he  quitted  his  sec- 
retaryship for  a  seat  at  the  Board  of  Trade.  In  the  same  year  his  co- 
medy of  the  Drummer  was  brought  on  the  stage.  The  name  of  the  au- 
thor was  not  announced ;  the  piece  was  coldly  received ;  and  some  crit- 
ics have  expressed  a  doubt  whether  it  were  really  Addison's.  To  us  the 
evidence,  both  external  and  internal,  seems  decisive.  It  is  not  in  Addi- 
son's best  manner  ;  but  it  contains  numerous  passages  which  no  other 
writer  known  to  us  could  have  prodnced.  It  was  again  performed  after 
Addison's  death,  and,  being  known  to  be  his,  was  loudly  applauded. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1715,  while  the  Rebellion  was  still 
raging  in  Scotland,  Addison  published  the  first  number  of  a  paper 
called  the  "  Freeholder."  Among  his  political  works  the  Freeholder  is 
entitled  to  the  first  place.  Even  in  the  Spectator  there  are  few  serious 
papers  nobler  than  the  character  of  his  friend  Lord  Somers ;  and  cer- 
tainly no  satirical  papers  superior  to  those  in  which  the  tory  fox-hunter 
is  introduced.  This  character  is  the  original  of  Squire  Western,  and  is 
drawn  with  all  Fielding's  force,  and  with  a  delicacy  of  which  Fielding 
was  altogether  destitute.  As  none  of  Addison's  works  exhibit  stronger 
marks  of  his  genius  than  the  Freeholder,  so  none  does  more  honor  to 
his  moral  character.  It  is  difficult  to  extol  too  highly  the  candor  and 
humanity  of  a  political  writer,  whom  even  the  excitement  of  civil  war 
cannot  hurry  into  unseemly  violence.  Oxford,  it  is  well  known,  was 
then  the  stronghold  of  toryism.  The  High  street  had  been  repeatedly 
lined  with  bayonets  in  order  to  keep  down  the  disaifected  gownsmen ; 
and  traitors  pursued  by  the  messengers  of  the  government  had  been 
concealed  in  the  garrets  of  several  colleges.  Yet  the  admonition  which, 
even  under  such  circumstances,  Addison  addressed  to  the  university,  is 
singularly  gentle,  respectful,  and  even  afiectionate.  Indeed,  he  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  deal  harshly  even  with  imaginary  persons. 
His  fox-hunter,  though  ignorant,  stupid,  and  violent,  is  at  heart  a  good 
fellow,  and  is  at  last  reclaimed  by  the  clemency  of  the  king.  Steele  was 
dissatisfied  with  his  friend's  moderation,  and  though  he  acknowledged 
that  the  Freeholder  was  excellently  written,  complained  that  the  minis- 
try pla3'ed  on  a  lute  when  it  was  necessary  to  blow  the  trumpet.  He 
accordingly  determined  to  execute  a  flourish  after  his  own  fashion ;  and 


Ixvi  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

tried  to  rouse  the  public  spirit  of  the  nation  by  means  of  a  paper  called 
the  Town  Talk,  which  is  now  as  utterly  forgotten  as  his  Englishman 
as  his  Crisis,  a§  his  letter  to  the  Bailiff  of  Stockbridge,  as  his  Reader — 
in  short,  as  every  thing  that  he  wrote  without  the  help  of  Addison. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  the  Drummer  was  acted,  and  in  which 
the  first  numbers  of  the  Freeholder  appeared,  the  estrangement  of  Pope 
and  Addison  became  complete.  Addison  had  from  the  first  seen  that 
Pope  was  false  and  malevolent.  Pope  had  discovered  that  Addison  was 
jealous.  The  discovery  was  made  in  a  strange  manner.  Pope  had 
written  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  in  two  cantos,  without  supernatural  ma- 
chinery. These  two  cantos  had  been  loudly  applauded,  and  by  none 
more  loudly  than  by  Addison.  Then  Pope  thought  of  the  Sylphs  and 
Gnomes,  Ariel,  Momentilla,  Crispissa,  and  Umbriel ;  and  resolved  to  in- 
terweave the  Rosicrucian  mythology  with  the  original  fabric.  He  asked 
Addison's  advice.  Addison  said  that  the  poem  as  it  stood  was  a  deli- 
cious little  thing,  and  entreated  Pope  not  to  run  the  risk  of  marring 
what  was  so  excellent  in  trying  to  mend  it.  Pope  afterwards  de- 
clared" that  this  insidious  counsel  first  opened  his  eyes  to  the  baseness 
of  him  who  gave  it. 

Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Pope's  plan  was  most  ingenious, 
and  that  he  afterwards  executed  it  with  great  skill  and  success.  But 
does  it  necessarily  follow  that  Addison's  advice  was  bad  ?  And  if  Ad- 
dison's advice  was  bad,  does  it  necessarily  follow  that  it  was  given  from 
bad  motives  ?  If  a  friend  were  to  ask  us  whether  we  would  advise  him 
to  risk  a  small  competence  in  a  lottery  of  which  the  chances  were  ten  to 
one  against  him,  we  should  do  our  best  to  dissuade  him  from  running 
such  a  risk.  Even  if  he  were  so  lucky  as  to  get  the  thirty  thousand 
pound  prize,  we  should  not  admit  that  we  had  counselled  him  ill ;  and 
we  should  certainly  think  it  the  height  of  injustice  in  him  to  accuse  us 
of  being  actuated  by  malice.  "We  think  Addison's  advice  good  advice. 
It  rested  on  a  sound  principle,  the  result  of  long  and  wide  experience. 
The  general  rule  undoubtedly  is,  that,  when  a  successful  work  of  imagi- 
nation has  been  produced,  it  should  not  be  recast.  We  cannot  at  this 
moment  call  to  mind  a  single  instance  in  which  this  rule  has  been  trans- 
gressed with  happy  effect,  except  the  instance  of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock. 
Tasso  recast  his  Jerusalem.     Akenside  recast  his  Pleasures  of  the  Imagi- 

1 1  Pope  afterwards  declared — "Where  ?  This  story  is  taken  from  Warburton,  and  not  from 
Pope.  Whenever  Mr.  Macaulay  ppeaks  of  Pope  it  would  be  well  to  compare  his  opinions 
and  statements  with  Eoscoe.  If  Pope  was  Rucli  a  man  as  M.  makes  him,  lie  wa^  the  greatest 
monster  of  perfidy  and  meanness  that  ever  existed,  and  not  only  his  works,  but  his  conduct 
towards  his  parents  and  his  friends  through  tlie  whole  of  a  life  embittered  by  constant  bodily 
suffering,  becoiuos  pevlectly  unintelligible.— G. 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OP      ADDISON.  Ixvil 

nation,  and  his  Epistle  to  Curio.  Pope  himself,  emboldened  no  doubt 
by  the  success  with  which  ho  had  expanded  and  remodelled  the 
Kape  of  the  Lock,  made  the  same  experiment  on  the  Dunciad.  All 
these  attempts  failed.  Who  was  to  foresee  that  Pope  would,  once  in 
his  life,  be  able  to  do  what  he  could  not  himself  do  twice,  and  what  no- 
body else  has  ever  done  ? 

Addison's  advice  was  good.  But  had  it  been  bad,  why  should  we 
pronounce  it  dishonest  ?  Scott  tells  us  that  one  of  his  best  friends  pre- 
dicted the  failure  of  Waverley.  Herder  adjured  Goethe  not  to  take  so 
unpromising  a  subject  as  Faust.  Hume  tried  to  dissuade  Robertson 
from  writing  the  history  of  Charles  V.  Nay,  Pope  himself  was  one  of 
those  who  prophesied  that  Cato  would  never  succeed  on  the  stage ;  and 
advised  Addison  to  print  it  without  risking  a  representation.  But  Scott, 
Goethe,  Robertson,  Addison,  had  the  good  sense  and  generosity  to  give 
their  advisers  credit  for  the  best  intentions.  Pope's  heart  was  not  of 
the  same  kind  with  theirs. 

In  1715,  while  he  was  engaged  in  translating  the  Iliad,  he  met  Ad- 
dison at  a  coffee-house.  Phillipps  and  Budgell  were  there.  But  their 
sovereign  got  rid  of  them,  and  asked  Pope  to  dine  with  him  alone.  Af- 
ter dinner,  Addison  said  that  he  lay  under  a  difficulty  which  he  had  for 
some  time  wished  to  explain.  "  Tickell,"  he  said,  "  translated  some  time 
ago  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad.  I  have  promised  to  look  it  over  and 
correct  it.  I  cannot,  therefore,  ask  to  see  yours  ;  for  that  would  be  dou- 
ble-dealing." Pope  made  a  civil  reply,  and  begged  that  his  second  book 
might  have  the  advantage  of  Addison's  revision.  Addison  readily 
agreed,  looked  over  the  second  book,  and  sent  it  back  with  warm  com- 
mendations. 

Tickell's  version  of  the  first  book  appeared  soon  after  this  conversa- 
tion. In  the  preface  all  rivalry  was  earnestly  disclaimed.  Tickell  de- 
clared he  should  not  go  on  with  the  Iliad.  That  enterprise  he  should 
leave  to  powers  which  he  admitted  to  be  superior  to  his  own.  His  only 
view,  he  said,  in  publishing  this  specimen  was  to  bespeak  the  favor  of 
the  public  to  a  translation  of  the  Odyssey,  in  which  be  had  made  some 
progress. 

Addison,  and  Addison's  devoted  followers,  pronounced  both  the  ver- 
sions good,  but  maintained  that  Tickell's  had  more  of  the  original.  The 
town  gave  a  decided  preference  to  Pope's.  We  do  not  think  it  worth 
while  to  settle  such  a  question  of  precedence.  Neither  of  the  rivals  can 
be  said  to  have  translated  the  Iliad,  unless,  indeed,  the  word  translation 
be  used  in  the  sense  which  it  bears  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 
When  Bottom  makes  his  appearance  with  an  ass's  head  instead  of  his 


Ixviii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OP      ADDISON. 

own,  Peter  Quince  exclaims,  "  Bless  thee !  Bottom,  bless  thee  !  thou  art 
translated."  In  this  sense,  undoubtedlj'^,  the  readers  of  either  Pope  or 
Tickell  may  very  properly  exclaim,  "Bless  thee!  Homer;  thou  art 
translated  indeed." 

Our  readers  will,  we  hope,  agi-ee  with  us  in  thinking  that  no  man  in 
Addison's  situation  could  have  acted  more  fairly  and  kindl}^,  both  to- 
wards Pope  and  towards  Tickell,  than  he  appears  to  have  done.  But 
an  odious  suspicion  had  sprung  up  in  the  mind  of  Pope,  He  fancied, 
and  he  soon  firmly  believed  that  there  was  a  deep  conspiracy  against 
his  fame  and  his  fortunes.  The  work  on  which  he  had  staked  his  repu- 
tation was  to  be  depreciated.  The  subscription,  on  which  rested  his 
hopes  of  a  competence,  was  to  be  defeated.  With  this  view  Addison 
had  made  a  rival  translation ;  Tickell  had  consented  to  father  it ;  and 
the  wits  of  Button's  had  united  to  puff  it. 

Is  there  any  external  evidence  to  support  this  grave  accusation? 
The  answer  is  short.     There  is  absolutely  none. 

Was  there  any  internal  evidence  which  proved  Addison  to  be  the 
author  of  this  version  ?  Was  it  a  work  which  Tickell  was  incapable  of 
producing  ?  Surely  not.  Tickell  was  a  fellow  of  a  college  at  Oxford, 
and  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  able  to  construe  the  Iliad ;  and  he 
was  a  better  versifier  than  his  friend.  We  are  not  aware  that  Pope 
pretended  to  have  discovered  any  turns  of  expression  peculiar  to  Addi- 
son. Had  such  turns  of  expression  been  discovered,  they  would  be  suf- 
ficiently accounted  for  by  supposing  Addison  to  have  corrected  his 
friend's  lines,  as  he  owned  that  he  had  done. 

Is  there  any  thing  in  the  character  of  the  accused  persons  which 
makes  the  accusation  probable?  We  answer  confidently — nothing. 
Tickell  was  long  after  this  time  described  by  Pope  himself  as  a  very 
fair  and  worthy  man.  Addison  had  been,  during  many  years,  before 
the  public.  Literary  rivals,  political  opponents,  had  kept  their  eyes  on 
him.  But  neither  envy  nor  faction,  in  their  utmost  rage,  had  ever  im- 
puted to  him  a  single  deviation  from  the  laws  of  honor  and  of  social 
morality.  Had  he  been  indeed  a  man  meanly  jealous  of  fame,  and  capable 
of  stooping  to  base  and  wicked  arts  for  the  purpose  of  injuring  his  com- 
petitors, would  his  vices  have  remained  latent  so  long  ?  He  was  a  wri- 
ter of  tragedy  :  had  he  ever  injured  Rowe  ?  He  was  a  writer  of  Come- 
dy :  had  he  not  done  ample  justice  to  Congreve,  and  given  valuable  help 
to  Steele  ?  He  was  a  pamphleteer :  have  not  his  good-nature  and  gene- 
rosity been  acknowledged  by  Swift,  his  rival  in  fame  and  his  adversary 
in  politics  ? 

That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villany  seems  to  us  high- 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF     ADDISON.  Ixix 

Ij  improbable.  That  Addison  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villany 
seems  to  us  highly  improbable.  But  that  these  two  men  should  have 
conspired  together  to  commit  a  villany  seems  to  us  improbable  in  a  ten 
fold  degree.  All  that  is  known  to  us  of  their  intercourse  tends  to  prove 
that  it  was  not  the  intercourse  of  two  accomplices  in  crime.  These  are 
some  of  the  lines  in  which  Tickell  poured  forth  his  sorrow  over  the  cof- 
fin of  Addison : — 

"  Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind? 
Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend, 
To  me  thine  aid,  thou  guardian  genius,  lend, 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms, 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before. 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more." 

In  what  words,  we  should  like  to  know,  did  this  guardian  genius 
invite  his  pupil  to  join  in  a  plan  such  as  the  editor  of  the  Satirist  would 
hardly  dare  to  propose  to  the  editor  of  the  Age  ? 

We  do  not  accuse  Pope  of  bringing  an  accusation  which  he  knew  to 
be  false.  We  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  he  believed  it  to  be  true ; 
and  the  evidence  on  which  he  believed  it  he  found  in  his  own  bad  heart. 
His  own  life  was  one  long  series  of  tricks,  as  mean  and  as  malicious  as 
that  of  which  he  suspected  Addison  and  Tickell.  He  was  all  stiletto 
and  mask.  To  injure,  to  insult,  to  save  himself  from  the  consequence 
of  injury  and  insult  by  lying  and  equivocating,  was  the  habit  of  his  life. 
He  published  a  lampoon  on  the  Duke  of  Chandos ;  he  was  taxed  with 
it ;  and  he  lied  and  equivocated.  He  published  a  lampoon  on  Aaron 
Hill ;  he  was  taxed  with  it ;  and  he  lied  and  equivocated.  He  published 
a  still  fouler  lampoon  on  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu ;  he  was  taxed 
with  it ;  and  he  lied  with  more  than  usual  effrontery  and  vehemence. 
He  puffed  himself  and  abused  his  enemies  under  feigned  names.  He 
robbed  himself  of  his  own  letters,  and  then  raised  the  hue  and  cry  after 
them.  Besides  his  frauds  of  malignity,  of  fear,  of  interest,  and  of  vani- 
ty, there  were  frauds  which  he  seems  to  have  committed  from  love  of 
fraud  alone.  He  had  a  habit  of  stratagem — a  pleasure  in  outwitting  all 
who  came  near  him.  Whatever  his  object  might  be,  the  indirect  road 
to  it  was  that  which  he  preferred.  For  Bolingbroke  Pope  undoubtedly 
felt  as  much  love  and  veneration  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  feel  for  any 
human  being.     Yet  Pope  was  scarcely  dead  when  it  was  discovered  that. 


IxX  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF     ADDISON. 

from  no  motive  except  the  mere  love  of  artifice,  he  had  been  guilty  of 
an  act  of  gross  perfidy  to  Bolingbroke. 

Nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  such  a  man  as  this  should  at- 
tribute to  others  that  which  he  felt  within  himself.  A  plain,  probable, 
coherent  explanation  is  frankly  given  to  him.  He  is  certain  that  it  is 
all  a  romance.  A  line  of  conduct  scrupulously  fair,  and  even  friendly, 
is  pursued  towards  him.  He  is  convinced  that  it  is  merely  a  cover  for 
a  vile  intrigue  by  which  he  is  to  be  disgraced  and  ruined.  It  is  vain  to 
ask  him  for  proofs.  He  has  none,  and  wants  none,  except  those  which 
he  carries  in  his  own  bosom. 

Whether  Pope's  malignity  at  length  provoked  Addison  to  retaliate 
for  the  first  and  last  time,  cannot  now  be  known  with  certainty.  We 
have  only  Pope's  story,  which  runs  thus.  A  pamphlet  appeared  con- 
taining some  reflections  which  stung  Pope  to  the  quick.  What  those 
reflections  were,  and  whether  they  were  reflections  of  which  he  had  a 
right  to  complain,  we  have  now  no  means  of  deciding.  The  Earl  of 
Warwick,  a  foolish  and  vicious  lad,  who  regarded  Addison  with  the 
feelings  with  which  such  lads  generally  regard  their  best  friends,  told 
Pope,  truly  or  falsely,  that  this  pamphlet  had  been  written  by  Addi- 
son's direction.  When  we  consider  what  a  tendency  storioa  have  to 
grow,  in  passing  even  from  one  honest  man  to  another  honest  man,  and 
when  we  consider  that  to  the  name  of  honest  man  neither  Pope 
nor  the  Earl  of  Warwick  had  a  claim,  we  are  not  disposed  to  attach 
much  importance  to  this  anecdote. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  Pope  was  furious.  He  had  already 
sketched  the  character  of  Atticus  in  prose.  In  his  anger  he  turned 
this  prose  into  the  brilliant  and  energetic  lines  which  every  body  knows 
by  heart,  or  ought  to  know  by  heart,  and  sent  them  to  Addison.  One 
charge  which  Pope  has  enforced  with  great  skill  is  probably  not  with- 
out foundation.  Addison  was,  we  are  inclined  to  believe,  too  fond  of 
presiding  over  a  circle  of  humble  friends.  Of  the  other  imputations 
which  these  famous  lines  are  intended  to  convey,  scarcely  one  has  ever 
been  proved  to  be  just,  and  some  are  certainly  false.  That  Addison 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  "  damning  with  faint  praise,"  appears  from  in- 
numerable passages  in  his  writings  ;  and  from  none  more  than  from 
those  in  which  he  mentions  Pope.  And  it  is  not  merely  unjust,  but 
ridiculous  to  describe  a  man  who  made  the  fortune  of  almost  every  one 
of  his  intimate  friends,  as  "  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged." 

That  Addison  felt  the  sting  of  Pope's  satire  keenly,  we  cannot 
doubt.  That  he  was  conscious  of  one  of  the  weaknesses  with  which  he 
was  reproached,  is  highly  probable.     But  his  heart,  we  firmly  believe. 


LIFE      AND. WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  Ixn 

acquitted  him  of  the  gravest  part  of  the  accusation.  He  acted  like 
himself.  As  a  satirist  he  was,  at  his  own  weapons,  more  than  Pope's 
match  ;  and  he  would  have  been  at  no  loss  for  topics.  A  distorted  and 
diseased  body,  tenanted  by  a  yet  more  distorted  and  diseased  mind — 
spite  and  envy  thinly  disguised  by  sentiments  as  benevolent  and  noble 
as  those  which  Sir  Peter  Teazle  admired  in  Mr.  Joseph  Surface — a 
feeble,  sickly  licentiousness — an  odious  love  of  filthy  and  noisome 
images — these  were  things  which  a  genius  less  powerful  than  that  to 
which  we  owe  the  Spectator  could  easily  have  held  up  to  the  mirth 
and  hatred  of  mankind.  Addison  had,  moreover,  at  his  command  other 
means  of  vengeance  which  a  bad  man  would  not  have  scrupled  to  use. 
He  w^s  powerful  in  the  state.  Pope  was  a  Catholic ;  and,  in  those 
times,  a  minister  would  have  found  it  easy  to  harass  the  most  innocent 
Catholic  by  innumerable  petty  vexations.  Pope,  near  twenty  years 
later,  said,  that  "through  the  lenity  of.  the  government  alone  he  could 
live  with  comfort."  "  Consider,"  he  exclaimed,  "  the  injury  that  a  man 
of  high  rank  and  credit  may  do  to  a  private  person,  under  penal  laws 
and  many  other  disadvantages."  It  is  pleasing  to  reflect  that  the  only 
revenge  which  Addison  took  was  to  insert  in  the  Freeholder  a  warm 
encomium  on  the  translation  of  the  Iliad ;  and  to  exhort  all  lovers  of 
learning  to  put  down  their  names  as  subscribers.  There  could  be  no 
doubt,  he  said,  from  the  specimens  already  published,  that  the  masterly 
hand  of  Pope  would  do  as  much  for  Homer  as  Dryden  had  done  for 
Virgil.  From  that  time  to  the  end  of  his  life,  he  always  treated  Pope 
by  Pope's  own  acknowledgment,  with  justice.  Friendship  was,  ol 
course,  at  an  end. 

One  reason  which  induced  the  Earl  of  Warwick  to  play  the  igna 
minious  part  of  the  talebearer  on  this  occasion,  may  have  been  his  dis- 
like of  the  marriage  which  was  about  to  take  place  between  his  mother 
and  Addison.  The  countess-dowager,  a  daughter  of  the  old  and  hon- 
orable family  of  the  Myddletons  of  Chirk,  a  fomily  which,  in  any  coun- 
try but  ours,  would  be  called  noble,  resided  at  Holland  House.  Ad- 
dison had,  during  some  years,  occupied  at  Chelsea  a  small  dwelling, 
once  the  abode  of  Nell  Gwyn.  Chelsea  is  now  a  district  of  London, 
and  Holland  House  may  be  called  a  town  residence.  But,  in  the  days 
of  Anne  and  George  I.,  milkmaids  and  sportsmen  wandered,  between 
green  hedges  and  over  fields  bright  with- daisies,  from  Kensington  al- 
most to  the  shore  of  the  Thames.  Addison  and  Lady  Warwick  were 
country  neighbors,  and  became  intimate  friends.  The  great  wit  and 
scholar  tried  to  allure  the  young  lord  from  the  fashionable  amusements 
of  beatinz  watchmen,  breaking:  windows,  and  rolling  women  in  hogs* 


Ixxii  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

heads  down  Holborn  Hill,  to  the  study  of  letters  and  the  practice  of 
virtue.  These  well  meant  exertions  did  little  good,  however,  either  to 
the  disciple  or  to  the  master.  Lord  Warwick  grew  up  a  rake,  and 
Addison  fell  in  love.  The  mature  beauty  of  the  countess  has  been 
celebrated  by  poets  in  language  which,  after  a  very  large  allowance 
has  been  made  for  flattery,  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  she  was  a 
fine  woman  ;  and  her  rank  doubtless  heightened  her  attractions.  The 
courtship  was  long.  The  hopes  of  the  lover  appear  to  have  risen  and 
fallen  with  the  fortunes  of  his  party.  His  attachment  was  at  length 
matter  of  such  notoriety  that,  when  he  visited  Ireland  for  the  last  time, 
Rowe  addressed  some  consolatory  verses  to  the  Chloe  of  Holland  House. 
It  strikes  us  as  a  little  strange  that,  in  these  verses,  Addison  should  be 
called  Lycidas  ;  a  name  of  singularly  evil  omen  for  a  swain  just  about 
to  cross  the  St.  George's  Channel. 

At  length  Chloe  capitulated.  Addison  was  indeed  able  to  treat 
with  her  on  equal  terms.  He  had  reason  to  expect  preferment  even 
higher  than  that  which  he  had  attained.  He  had  inherited  the  fortune 
of  a  brother  who  died  governor  of  Madras.  He  had  purchased  an 
estate  in  Warwickshire,  and  had  been  welcomed  to  his  domain  in  very 
tolerable  verse  by  one  of  the  neighboring  squires,  the  poetical  fox- 
hunter,  William  Somerville.  In  August,  1716,  the  newspapers  an- 
nounced that  Joseph  Addison,  Esquire,  famous  for  many  excellent 
works  both  in  verse  and  prose,  had  espoused  the  countess-dowager  of 
Warwick. 

He  now  fixed  his  abode  at  Holland  House — a  house  which  can 
boast  of  a  greater  number  of  inmates  distinguished  in  political  and  lite- 
rar}^  history  than  any  other  private  dwelling  in  England.  His  portrait 
now  hangs  there.  The  features  are  pleasing ;  the  complexion  is  re- 
markably fair ;  but,  in  the  expression,  we  trace  rather  the  gentleness 
of  his  disposition  than  the  force  and  keenness  of  his  intellect. 

Not  long  after  his  marriage  he  reached  the  height  of  civil  greatness. 
The  whig  government  had,  during  some  time,  been  torn  by  internal 
dissensions.  Lord  Townshend  led  one  section  of  the  cabinet;  Lord 
Sunderland  the  other.  At  length,  in  the  spring  of  1717,  Sunderland 
triumphed.  Townshend  retired  from  office,  and  was  accompanied  b}"" 
Walpole  and  Cowper.  Sunderland  proceeded  to  reconstruct  the  min- 
istry ;  and  Addison  was  appointed  secretary  of  state.  It  is  certain  that 
the  seals  were  pressed  upon  him,  and  were  at  first  declined  by  him. 
Men  equally  versed  in  oflicial  business  might  easily  have  been  found; 
and  his  colleagues  knew  that  they  could  not  expect  assistance  from 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  IxXlii 

him  in  debate.  He  owed  his  elevation  to  his  popularity  ;  to  his  stain- 
less probity,  and  to  his  literary  fame. 

But  scarcely  had  Addison  entered  the  cabinet  when  his  strength 
began  to  fail.  From  one  serious  attack  he  recovered  in  the  autumn  ; 
and  his  recovery  was  celebrated  in  Latin  verses,  worthy  of  his  own 
pen,  by  Vincent  Bourne,  who  was  then  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
A  relapse  soon  took  place ;  and,  in  the  following  spring,  Addison  was- 
prevented  by  a  severe  asthma  from  discharging  the  duties  of  his  post. 
He  resigned  it,  and  was  succeeded  by  his  friend  Craggs ;  a  young  man 
whose  natural  parts,  though  little  improved  by  cultivation,  were  quick 
and  showy,  whose  graceful  person  and  winning  manners  had  made  him 
generally  acceptable  in  society,  and  who,  if  he  had  lived,  would  pro- 
bably have  been  the  most  formidable  of  all  the  rivals  of  Walpole. 

As  yet  there  was  no  Joseph  Hume.  The  ministers,  therefore,  were 
able  to  bestow  on  Addison  a  retiring  pension  of  £1500  a  year.  In 
what  form  this  pension  was  given  we  are  not  told  by  his  biographers, 
and  have  not  time  to  inquire.  But  it  is  certain  that  Addison  did  not 
vacate  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

Rest  of  mind  and  body  seemed  to  have  re-established  his  health  ; 
and  he  thanked  God,  with  cheerful  piety,  for  having  set  him  free  both 
from  his  office  and  from  his  asthma.  Many  years  seemed  to  be  before 
him,  and  he  meditated  many  works — a  tragedy  on  the  death  of  So- 
crates, a  translation  of  the  Psalms,  a  treatise  on  the  evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity. Of  this  last  performance  a  part,  which  we  could  well  spare, 
has  come  down  to  us. 

But  the  fatal  complaint  soon  returned,  and  gradually  prevailed 
against  all  the  resources  of  medicine.  It  is  melancholy  that  the  last 
months  of  such  a  life  should  have  been  overclouded  both  by  domestic 
and  by  political  vexations.  A  tradition  which  began  early,  which  has 
been  generally  received,  and  to  which  we  have  nothing  to  oppose,  has 
represented  his  wife  as  an  arrogant  and  imperious  woman.  It  is 
said  that  till  his  health  failed  him  he  was  glad  to  escape  from  the 
countess-dowager  and  her  magnificent  dining-room,  blazing  with  the 
gilded  devices  of  the  house  of  Rich,  to  some  tavern  where  he  could  en- 
joy a  laugh,  to  talk  about  Virgil  and  Boileau,  and  a  bottle  of  claret, 
with  the  friends  of  his  happier  days.  All  those  friends,  however,  were 
not  left  to  him.  Sir  Richard  Steele  had  been  gradually  estranged  by 
various  causes.  He  considered  himself  as  one  who,  in  evil  times,  had 
braved  martyrdom  for  his  political  principles,  and  demanded,  when  the 
hig  party  was  triumphant,  a  large  compensation  for  what  he  had 
suffered  when  it  was  militant.     The  whig  leaders  took  a  very  different 


Ixxiv  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

view  of  his  claims.  They  thought  that  he  had,  by  his  own  petulance 
and  folly,  bi;ought  them  as  well  as  himself  into  trouble  ;  and  though 
they  did  not  absolutely  neglect  him,  doled  out  favors  to  him  with  a 
sparing  hand.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  be  angry  with  them,  and 
especially  angry  with  Addison.  But  what  above  all  seems  to  have 
disturbed  Sir  Richard  was  the  elevation  of  Tickell,  who,  at  thirty,  was 
made  by  Addison  under-secretary  of  state;  while  the  editor  of  the 
Tatler  and  Spectator,  the  author  of  the  Crisis,  the  member  for  Stock- 
bridge  who  had  been  persecuted  for  firm  adherence  to  the  house  of 
Hanover,  was,  at  near  fifty,  forced,  after  many  solicitations  and  com- 
plaints, to  content  himself  with  a  share  in  the  patent  of  Drur^Mane 
theatre.  Steele  himself  says,  in  his  celebrated  letter  to  Congreve, 
that  Addison,  by  his  preference  of  Tickell.  "  incurred  the  warmest  re- 
sentment of  other  gentlemen  ; "  and  every  thing  seems  to  indicate  that, 
of  those  resentful  gentlemen  Steele  was  himself  one. 

While  poor  Sir  Richard  was  brooding  over  what  he  considered  as, 
Addison's  unkindness,  a  new  cause  of  quarrel  arose.  The  whig  party, 
already  divided  against  itself,  was  rent  by  a  new  schism.  The  cele- 
brated bill  for  limiting  the  number  of  peers  had  been  brought  in.  The 
proud  Duke  of  Somerset,  first  in  rank  of  all  nobles  whose  religion  per- 
mitted them  to  sit  in  Parliament,  was  the  ostensible  author  of  the 
measure.  But  it  was  supported,  and,  in  truth,  devised  by  the  prime 
minister. 

We  are  satisfied  that  the  bill  was  most  pernicious  ;  and  we  fear  that 
the  motives  which  induced  Sunderland  to  frame  it  were  not  honorable 
to  him.  But  we  cannot  deny  that  it  was  supported  by  many  of  the 
best  and  wisest  men  of  that  age.  Nor  was  this  strange.  The  royal 
prerogative  had,  within  the  memory  of  the  generation  then  in  the  vigor 
of  life,  been  so  grossly  abused,  that  it  was  still  regardwi  with  a  jealousy 
which,  when  the  peculiar  situation  of  the  house  of  Brunswick  is  consid- 
ered, may  perhaps  be  called  immoderate.  The  prerogative  of  creating 
peers  had,  in  the  opinion  of  the  whigs,  been  grossly  abused  by  Queen 
Anne's  last  ministry;  and  even  the  torics  admitted  that  her  majesty,  in 
swamping,  as  it  has  since  been  called,  the  Upper  House,  had  done  what 
only  an  extreme  case  could  justify.  The  theory  of  the  English  constitu- 
tion, according  to  many  high  authorities,  was,  that  three  independent 
powers,  the  monarchy,  the  nobility,  and  the  commons,  ought  constantly 
to  act  as  checks  on  each  other.  If  this  theory  were  sound,  it  seemed  to 
follow  that  to  put  one  of  these  powers  under  the  absolute  control  of  the 
other  two,  was  absurd.  But  if  the  number  of  peers  were  unlimited,  it 
could  not  be  denied  that  the  Upper  House  was  under  the  absolute  con- 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OP      ADDISON.  IxxV 

trol  of  the  crown  and  the  commons,  and  was  indebted  only  to  their 
moderation  for  any  power  which  it  might  be  suffered  to  retain. 

Steele  took  part  with  the  opposition ;  Addison  with  the  ministers. 
Steele,  in  a  paper  called  the  "  Plebeian,"  vehemently  attacked  the  bill. 
Sunderland  called  for  help  on  Addison,  and  Addison  obeyed  the  call. 
In  a  paper  called  the  "  Old  Whig,"  he  answered,  and  indeed  refuted, 
Steele's  arguments.  It  seems  to  us,  that  the  premises  of  both  the  con- 
troversialists were  unsound  ;  that,  on  those  premises,  Addison  reasoned 
well  and  Steele  ill ;  and  that  consequently  Addison  brought  out  a  false 
conclusion,  while  Steele  blundered  upon  the  truth.  In  style,  in  wit, 
and  in  politeness,  Addison  maintained  his  superiority,  though  the  Old 
Whig  is  by  no  means  one  of  his  happiest  performances. 

At  first,  both  the  anonymous  opponents  observed  the  laws  of  pro- 
priety. But  at  length  Steele  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  throw  an  odious 
imputation  on  the  morals  of  the  chiefs  of  the  administration.  Addison 
replied  with  severity ;  but,  in  our  opinion,  with  less  severity  than  was 
due  to  so  grave  an  offence  against  morality  and  decorum  ;  nor  did  he, 
in  his  just  anger,  forget  for  a  moment  the  laws  of  good  taste  and  good 
breeding.  One  calumny  which  has  been  often  repeated,  and  never  yet 
contradicted,  it  is  our  duty  to  expose.  It  is  asserted  in  the  Biographia 
Britannica,  that  Addison  designated  Steele  as  "little  Dicky."  This 
assertion  was  repeated  by  Johnson,  who  had  never  seen  the  Old  Whig, 
and  was  therefore  excusable.  It  has  also  been  repeated  by  Miss  Aikin, 
who  has  seen  the  Old  Whig,  and  for  whom,  therefore,  there  is  less 
excuse.  Now,  it  is  true  that  the  words  "little  Dicky"  ocotir  in  the 
Old  Whig,  and  that  Steele's  name  was  Richard.  It  is  equally  true  that 
the  words  "little  Isaac"  occur  in  the  Duenna,  and  that  Newton's 
name  was  Isaac.  But  we  confidently  affirm  that  Addison's  little  Dicky 
had  no  more  to  do  with  Steele,  than  Sheridan's  little  Isaac  with  New- 
ton. If  we  apply  the  words  "  little  Dicky "  to  Steele,  we  deprive  a 
very  lively  and  ingenious  passage,  not  only  of  all  its  wit,  but  of  all  its 
meaning.  Little  Dicky  was  evidently  the  nickname  of  some  comic 
actor  who  played  the  usurer  Gomez,  then  a  most  popular  part,  in  Dry- 
den's  Spanish  Friar. 

The  merited  reproof  which  Steele  had  received,  though  softened  by 
some  kind  and  courteous  expressions,  galled  him  bitterly.  He  replied 
with  little  force  and  great  acrimony  ;  but  no  rejoinder  appeared.  Addi- 
son was  fast  hastening  to  his  grave ;  and  had,  as  we  may  well  suppose, 
little  disposition  to  prosecute  a  quarrel  with  an  old  friend.  His  com- 
plaint had  terminated  in  dropsy.    He  bore  up  long  and  manfully.    But 


Ixxvi  LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON. 

at  length  he  abandoned  all  hope,  dismissed  his  physicians,  and  calmly 
prepared  to  die. 

His  works  he  intrusted  to  the  care  of  Tickell ;  and  dedicated  them  a 
very  few  days  before  his  death  to  Craggs,  in  a  letter  written  with  the 
sweet  and  gi-aceful  eloquence  of  a  Saturday's  Spectator.  In  this,  his 
last  composition,  he  alluded  to  his  approaching  end  in  words  so  manly, 
so  cheerful,  and  so  tender,  that  it  is  difficult  to  read  them  without  tears. 
At  the  same  time  he  earnestly  recommended  the  interests  of  Tickell  to 
the  care  of  Craggs. 

Within  a  few  hours  of  the  time  at  which  this  dedication  was  written, 
Addison  sent  to  beg  Gay,  who  was  then  living  by  his  wits  about  town, 
to  come  to  Holland  House.  Gay  went  and  was  received  with  great 
kindness.  To  his  amazement  his  forgiveness  was  implored  by  the  dying 
man.  Poor  Gay,  the  most  good-natured  and  simple  of  mankind,  could 
not  imagine  what  he  had  to  forgive.  There  was,  however,  some  wrong, 
the  remembrance  of  which  weighed  on  Addison's  mind,  and  which  he 
declared  himself  anxious  to  repair.  He  was  in  a  state  of  extreme 
exhaustion ;  and  the  parting  was  doubtless  a  friendly  one  on  both  sides. 
Gay  supposed  that  some  plan  to  serve  him  had  been  in  agitation  at 
court,  and  had  been  frustrated  by  Addison's  influence.  Nor  is  this 
improbable.  Gay  had  paid  assiduous  court  to  the  royal  family.  But 
in  the  queen's  days  he  had  been  the  eulogist  of  Bolingbroke,  and  was 
still  connected  with  many  tories.  It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  while 
heated  by  conflict,  should  have  thought  himself  justified  in  obstructing 
the  preferment  of  one  whom  he  might  regard  as  a  political  enemy. 
Neither  is  it  strange  that,  when  reviewing  his  whole  life,  and  earnestly 
scrutinizing  all  his  motives,  he  should  think  that  he  had  acted  an 
unkind  and  ungenerous  part,  in  using  his  power  against  a .  distressed 
man  of  letters,  who  was  as  harmless  and  as  helpless  as  a  child. 

One  inference  may  be  drawn  from  this  anecdote.  It  appears  that 
Addison,  on  his  death-bed,  called  himself  to  a  strict  account ;  and  was 
not  at  ease  till  he  had  asked  pardon  for  an  injury  which  it  was  not  even 
suspected  that  he  had  committed — for  an  injury  which  would  have 
caused  disquiet  only  to  a  very  tender  conscience.  Is  it  not  then  reason- 
able to  infer  that,  if  he  had  really  been  guilty  of  forming  a  base  cou- 
spiracy  against  the  fame  and  fortunes  of  a  rival,  he  would  have  express- 
ed some  remorse  for  so  serious  a  crime?  But  it  is  unnecessary  to 
multiply  arguments  and  evidence  for'the  defence,  when  there  is  neither 
argument  nor  evidence  for  the  accusation. 

The  last  moments  of  Addison  were  perfectly  serene.  His  interview 
with  his  son-in-law  is  universally  known.     "See,"  he  said,  "how  a 


LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OF      ADDISON.  IxXVli 

Christian  can  die  !  "  The  piety  of  Addison  was,  in  truth,  of  a  singular- 
ly cheerful  character.  The  feeling  which  predominates  in  all  his  devo- 
tional writings,  is  gratitude.  God  was  to  him  the  all-wise  and  all- 
powerful  friend,  who  had  watched  over  his  cradle  with  more  than 
maternal  tenderness ;  who  had  listened  to  his  cries  before  they  could 
form  themselves  in  prayer;  who  had  preserved  his  youth  from  the 
snares  of  vice ;  who  had  made  his  cup  run  over  with  worldly  blessings ; 
who  had  doubled  the  value  of  those  blessings,  by  bestowing  a  thankful 
heart  to  enjoy  them,  and  dear  friends  to  partake  them ;  who  had 
rebuked  the  waves  of  the  Ligurian  gulf,  had  purified  the  autumnal  air 
of  the  Campagna,  and  had  restrained  the  avalanches  of  Mont  Cenis. 
Of  the  Psalms,  his  favorite  was  that  which  represents  the  Ruler  of  all 
things  under  the  endearing  image  of  a  shepherd,  whose  crook  guides 
the  flock  safe,  through  gloomy  and  desolate  glens,  to  meadows  well 
watered  and  rich  with  herbage.  On  that  goodness  to  which  he  ascrib- 
ed all  the  happiness  of  his  life,  he  relied  in  the  hour  of  death  with  the 
love  which  casteth  out  fear.  He  died  on  the  17th  of  June,  1719.  He 
had  just  entered  his  forty-eighth  year. 

His  body  lay  in  state  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber,  and  was  borne 
thence  to  the  Abbey  at  dead  of  night.  The  choir  sang  a  funeral  hymn. 
Bishop  Atterbury,  one  of  those  tories  who  had  loved  and  honored  the 
most  accomplished  of  the  whigs,  met  the  corpse,  and  led  the  procession 
by  torch-light,  round  the  shrine  of  Saint  Edward  and  the  graves  of  the 
Plantagenets,  to  the  chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  On  the  north  side 
of  that  chapel,  in  the  vault  of  the  house  of  Albemarle,  the  coffin  of 
Addison  lies  next  to  the  coffin  of  Montagu.  Yet  a  few  months — and 
the  same  mourners  passed  again  along  the  same  aisle.  The  same  sad 
anthem  was  again  chanted.  The  same  vault  was  again  opened  ;  and 
the  coffin  of  Craggs  was  placed  close  to  the  coffin  of  Addison. 

Many  tributes  were  paid  to  the  memory  of  Addison.  But  one  alone 
is  now  remembered.  Tickell  bewailed  his  friend  in  an  elegy  which 
would  do  honor  to  the  greatest  name  in  our  literature ;  and  which 
unites  the  energy  and  magnificence  of  Dryden  to  the  tenderness  and 
purity  of  Cowper.  This  fine  poem  was  prefixed  to  a  superb  edition  of 
Addison's  works,  which  was  published -in  1721,  by  subscription.  The 
names  of  the  subscribers  proved  how  widely  his  fame  had  been  spread. 
That  his  countrymen  should  be  eager  to  possess  his  writings,  even  in  a 
costly  form,  is  not  wonderful.  But  it  is  wonderful  that,  though 
English  literature  was  then  little  studi^  on  the  Continent,  Spanish 
grandees,  Italian  prelates,  marshals  of  France,  should  be  found  in  the 
list.     Among  the  most  remarkable  names  are  those  of  the  Queen  of 


Ixxviii        LIFE      AND      WRITINGS      OP      ADDISON. 

Sweden,  of  Prince  Eugene,  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  of  the  Dukes 
of  Parma,  Modena,  and  Guastalla,  of  the  Doge  of  Genoa,  of  the  Regent 
Orleans,  and  of  Cardinal  Dubois.  We  ought  to  add,  that  this  edition, 
though  eminently  beautiful,  is  in  some  important  points  defective :  nor, 
indeed,  do  we  yet  possess  a  complete  collection  of  Addison's  writings. 

It  is  strange  that  neither  his  opulent  and  noble  widow,  nor  any  of 
his  powerful  and  attached  friends,  should  have  thought  of  placing  even 
a  simple  tablet,  inscribed  with  his  name,  on  the  walls  of  the  Abbey. 
It  was  not  till  three  generations  had  laughed  and  wept  over  his  pages 
that  the  omission  was  supplied  by  the  public  veneration.  At  length,  in 
our  own  time,  his  image,  skilfully  graven,  appeared  in  Poet's  Corner. 
It  represents  him,  as  we  can  conceive  him,  clad  in  his  dressing-gown, 
and  freed  from  his  wig,  stepping  from  his  parlor  at  CheLsea  into  his  trim 
little  garden,  with  the  account  of  the  Everlasting  Club,  or  the  Loves 
of  Hilpa  and  Shalum,  just  finished  for  the  next  day's  Spectator,  in  his 
hand.  Such  a  mark  of  national  respect  was  due  to  the  unsullied  states- 
man, to  the  accomplished  scholar,  to  the  master  of  pure  English  elo- 
quence, to  the  consummate  painter  of  life  and  manners.  It  was  due, 
above  all,  to  the  great  satirist,  who  alone  knew  how  to  use  ridicule 
without  abusing  it,  who,  without  inflicting  a  wound,  effected  a  great 
social  reform,  and  who  reconciled  wit  and  virtue,  after  a  long  and  disas- 
trous separation,  during  which  wit  had  been  led  astray  by  profligacy, 
and  virtue  by  fanaticism. 


[Richard  Hurd,  Bishop  of  ^yorceste^,  was  denominated  by 
Gibbon,  wha  has  left  a  careful  examination  of  l^is  commentary  on 
Horace's  epistles,  "  one  of  those  valuable  authors  who  cannot  be 
read  without  improvement."  He  was  born  at  Cohgreve,  Staf- 
fordshire, January,  13,  1721,  and  died  May,  1808.  He  studied 
at  Cambridge,  rose  through  the  various  degrees  of  preferment, 
from  fellow  to  bishop ;  was  preceptor  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  and 
Duke  of  York ;  attracted  attention  by  several  critical  and  theo- 
logical works ;  a  defence  of  religion  against  Hume,  and  his  friend- 
ship with  AVarburton — of  whom  he  was  both  biographer  and  edi- 
tor.    His  edition  of  Addison  was  published  in  6  vols.  8vo. 

The  notes  are  chiefly  confined  to  verbal  criticism,  and  the  fol- 
lowing notice  and  extracts  are  the  only  preface. — G.] 


Mr.  Addison  is  generally  allowed  to  be  the  roost  coirect  and  elegant 
of  all  our  writers ;  yet  some  inaccuracies  of  style  have  escaped  him,  which 
it  is  the  chief  design  of  the  following  notes  to  point  out.  A  work  of  this 
sort,  well  executed,  would  be  of  use  to  foreigners  who  study  our  language ; 
and  even  to  such  of  our  countrymen,  as  wish  to  write  it  in  perfect  purity. 

R.  WORCESTER. 

Extract  from  a  Letter  of  Bishop  "Warburton,  to  Dr.  IIlrd, 

"  Gloixcestee,  Sept  10, 17T0. 
— "Your  grammatical  pleasures,  which  you 
enjoy  in  studying  the  most  correct  of  our  great  writers,  Mr.  Addison,  can- 
not be  greater  than  the  political  ones  I  taste,  in  reading,  over  again,  tlie 
most  incorrect  of  all  good  writers  (though  not  from  his  incorrectness, 
which  is  stupendous)  Lord  Clarendon,  in  the  late  published  continuation 
of  his  History. 

"  I  charge  you  bring  your  Addison  to  town.  Nothing  is  minutise  to 
me  which  you  write  or  think." 

See  "  Letters  from  a  late  etnhient  Prelate,''''  &c. — Letter  227.    4to.    ISOS, 

And  in   Letter   228,   in   the   same   collection,    October   16,    ITYO,   the 
Bishop  says — 

— "Your  reflections  on  Lord  Clarendon  are  the  truth  itself.  The  His- 
tory of  his  Life  and  Administration  I  have  just  finished.  Every  thing  i? 
admirable  in  it  but  the  style :  in  which  your  favourite  and  amiable  author 
[Mr.  Addison]  has  infinitely  the  advantage.  Bring  him  with  you  to  town. 
There,  I  own,  your  late  amusements  have  the  advantage  of  mine.  It  was 
an  advantage  I  envied  you ; " — 

Extract  of  a  Letter  from  Dr.  Hurd  to  the  Reverend  Mb,   Mason, 
Residentiary  of  Yorke. 

"Thurcaston,  Oct  26,  1770. 
— "You  will  ask  what  I  have  done  in  this  long  leisure.  Not  much 
indeed,  to  any  purpose.  My  lecture  has  slept :  But  I  found  an  amuse- 
ment in  turning  over  the  works  of  Mr.  Addison.  I  set  out,  many  years 
ago,  with  a  warm  admiration  of  this  amiable  writer.  I  then  took  a  surfeit 
of  his  natural,  easy  manner;  and  was  taken,  like  my  betters,  with  the  rap- 
tures and  high  flights  of  Shakespeare.  My  maturer  judgment,  or  lenient 
age  (call  it  which  you  will),  has  now  led  me  back  to  the  favourite  of  my 
youth.  And,  here,  I  think,  I  shall  stick:  for  such  useful  sense,  in  so 
charming  words,  I  find  not  elsewhere.  His  taste  is  so  pure,  and  his  Vir- 
gilian  prose  (as  Dr.  Young  styles  it)  so  exquisite,  that  I  have  but  now 
found  out,  at  the  close  of  a  critical  life,  the  full  value  of  his  writings." — 


SnHtription  tfl  3Sr.  %Wim,  mWm  in  1805. 

EXIMIO  VIEO, 

JOSEPHO   ADDISON: 

GRATIA,   FAMA,   FOETFNA  OOMMENDATO; 

HUMANIOEIBIJS  LITEEIS  TTNICE   INSTETJOTO; 

HAUD   IGXOBILI   POET^  ; 

IN   OEATIONE   SOLTJTA   OONTEXENDA 

STJMMO   AETIFICi; 

OENSOEI  MOETJM 

GEAVI   SANE,    SED   ET  PEEJTJCTJNDO, 

LEVIOEEBUS   IN  AEGUMENTI8 

SUBEIDENTI   STJAYITEE, 

EES   ETIAM  SEEIA8 

LEPOEE   QUODAM  STIO   OONTINGENTI ; 

PIETATIS,    POEEO,    SINOEE^, 

HOO   EST,    OHEISTIAN^, 

FIDE,   VITA,   6CEIPTIS 

BTUDIOSISSIMO   CULTOEI I 

EXIMIO,   PEOINDE,   VIEO, 

JOSEPHO   ADDISON, 

HOO  MONUMENTIJM   SAOEUM  E8TO. 

.        E.  W.  1805,  Sept.  6. 


.     TO  THE  ElflHT  HONOUEABIB 

JAMES   CRAGGS,   Esq., 

HIS  MAJESTY'S  PEINCIPAL  SECEETAEY  -OF  STATE.* 

Dear  Sir, 

I  CANNOT  wish  that  any  of  my  writings  should  last  longer 
than  the  memory  of  our  friendship,  and  therefore  I  thus 
puhlickly  bequeathe  them  to  you,  in  return  for  the  many 
valuable  instances  of  your  affection. 

That  they  may  come  to  you  with  as  little  disadvantage 
as  possible,  I  have  left  the  care  of  them  to  one,  whom,  by 
the  experience  of  some  years,  I  know  well  qualified  to  an- 
swer my  intentions.  He  has  already  the  honour  and  hap- 
piness of  being  under  your  protection  ;  and,  as  he  will  very 
much  stand  in  need  of  it,  I  cannot  wish  him  better,  than 
that  he  may  continue  to  deserve  the  favour  and  counte- 
nance of  such  a  patron. 

I  have  no  time  to  lay  out  in  forming  such  compliments, 
as  would  but  ill  suit  that  familiarity  between  us,  which 
was  once  my  greatest  pleasure,  and  will  be  my  greatest 
honour  hereafter.  Instead  of  them,  accept  of  my  hearty 
wishes,  that   the  great   reputation  you  have  acquired  so 

*  This  dedication  and  preface  belong  to  the  original  edition  of  Addi- 
son's works  by  Tickell. — G. 


DEDICATION. 


early  may  increase  more  and  more  :  and  that  you  may  long 
serve  your  country  with  those  .excellent  talents  and  un- 
blemished integrity,  which  have  so  powerfully  recommend- 
ed you  to  the  most  gracious  and  amiable  monarch  that 
ever  filled  a  throne.  May  the  frankness  and  generosity  of 
your  spirit  continue  to  soften  and  subdue*  your  enemies, 
and  gain  you  many  friends,  if  possible,  as  sincere  as  your- 
self. When  you  have  found  such,  they  cannot  wish  you 
more  true  happiness  than  I,  who  am,  with  the  greatest 
zeal, 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  most  entirely  affectionate  Friend, 

And  faithful  obedient  Servant, 

J.  Addison. 
Junk  4  1719. 


TICKELLS     PEEFACE. 

Joseph  Addison,  the  son  of  Lancelot  Addison,  D.  D.,  and  of 
Jane,  the  daughter  of  Nathaniel  Gulston,  D.  D.,  and  sister  of  Dr. 
William  Grulston,  Bishop  of  Bristol,  was  born  at  Milston,  near 
Ambrosebury,  in  the  county  of  Wilts,  in  the  year  1671.^  His 
father,  who  was  of  the  county  of  Westmoreland,  and  educated  at 
Queen's  College  in  Oxford,  passed  many  years  in  his  travels 
through  Europe  and  Africa,  where  he  joined,  to  the  uncommon 
and  excellent  talents  of  nature,  a  great  knowledge  of  letters  and 
things ;  of  which  several  books  published  by  him  are  ample  tes- 
timonies. He  was  rector  of  Milston  above-mentioned,  when  Mr. 
Addison,  his  eldest  son  was  born ;  and  afterwards  became  Arch- 
deacon of  Coventry,  and  Bean  of  Litchfield. 

Mr.  Addison  received  his  first  education  at  the  Chartreux, 
from  whence  he  was  removed  very  early  to  Queen's  College  in 
Oxford.  He  had  been  there  about  two  years,  when  the  accidental 
sight  of  a  paper  of  his  verses,  in  the  hands  of  Dr.  Lancaster,  then 
Dean  of  that  house,  occasioned  his  being  elected  into  Magdalen 
College.  He  employed  his  first  years  in  the  study  of  the  old 
Greek  and  Roman  writers ;  whose  language  and  manner  he 
caught  at  that  time  of  life,  as  strongly  as  other  young  people 
gain  a  French  accent,  or  a  genteel  air.  An  early  acquaintance 
with  the  classics  is  what  may  be  called  the  good-breeding  of  po- 
etry, as  it  gives  a  certain  gracefulness  which  never  forsakes  a 

'A  singular  mistake.     The  real  date  is  May  1st,  1672. 


8  THE      PREFACE. 

mind,  that  contracted  it  in  youth,  but  is  seldom  or  never  hit  by 
those,  who  would  learn  it  too  late.  He  first  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  Latin  compositions,  published  in  the  Musce  Angli- 
cance^  and  was  admired  as  one  of  the  best  authors  since  the  Au- 
gustan age,  in  the  two  Universities,  and  the  greatest  part  of 
Europe,  before  he  was  talked  of  as  a  poet  in  town.  There  is 
not,  perhaps,  any  harder  task  than  to  taine  the  natural  wildness 
of  wit,  and  to  civilize  the  fancy.  The  generality  of  our  old  Eng- 
lish poets  abound  in  forced  conceits,  and  affected  phrases  ;  and 
even  those,  who  are  said  to  come  the  nearest  to  exactness,  are  but 
too  often  fond  of  unnatural  beauties,  and  aim  at  something  bet- 
ter than  perfection.  If  Mr.  Addison's  example  and  precepts  be 
the  occasion,  that  there  now  begins  to  be  a  great  demand  for  cor- 
rectness, we  may  justly  attribute  it  to  his  being  first  fashioned 
by  the  ancient  models,  and  familiarized  to  propriety  of  thought, 
and  chastity  of  style.  Our  country  owes  it  to  him,  that  the  fa- 
mous Monsieur  Boileau  first  conceived  an  opinion  of  the  English 
genius  for  poetry,  by  perusing  the  present  he  made  him  of  the 
MuscB  Anglicance.  It  has  been  currently  reported,  that  this  fa- 
mous French  poet,  among  the  civilities  he  showed  Mr.  Addison 
on  that  occasion,  affirmed,  that  he  would  not  have  written  against 
Perrault,  had  he  before  seen  such  excellent  pieces  by  a  modern 
hand.  Such  a  saying  would  have  been  impertinent  and  unworthy 
Boileau,  whose  dispute  with  Perrault  turned  chiefly  upon  some 
passages  in  the  ancients,  which  he  rescued  from  the  mis-interpre- 
tations of  his  adversary.  The  true  and  natural  compliment  made 
by  him,  was,  that  those  books  had  given  him  a  very  new  idea  of 
the  English  politeness,  and  that  he  did  not  question  but  there 
were  excellent  compositions  in  the  native  language  of  a  country 
that  possessed  the  Koman  genius  in  so  eminent  a  degree. 

The  first  English  performance  made  public  by  him,  is  a  short 
copy  of  verses  to  Mr.   Dryden,  with  a  view  particularly  to  his 


THEPREFACE.  9 

translations.  This  was  soon  followed  by  a  version  of  the  fourth 
Georgic  of  Virgil,  of  which  Mr.  Dryden  makes  very  honourable 
mention,  in  the  postscript  to  his  own  translation  of  all  Virgil's 
works ;  wherein  I  have  often  wondered  that  he  did  not,  at  the 
same  time,  acknowledge  his  obligation  to  Mr.  Addison,  for  giving 
him  the  Essay  upon  the  Georgics,  prefixed  to  Mr.  Dryden's  trans- 
lation. Lest  the  honour  of  so  exquisite  a  piece  of  criticism 
should  hereafter  be  transferred  to  a  wrong  author,  I  have  taken 
care  to  insert  it  in  this  collection  of  his  works. 

Of  some  other  copies  of  verses,  printed  in  the  miscellanies, 
while  he  was  young,  the  largest  is  An  Account  of  the  greatest 
English  Poets ;  in  the  close  of  which  he  insinuates  a  design  he 
then  had  of  going  into  holy  orders,  to  which  he  was  strongly  im- 
portuned by  his  father.  His  remarkable  seriousness  and  mo- 
desty, which  might  have  been  urged  as  powerful  reasons  for  his 
choosing  that  life,  proved  the  chief  obstacles  to  it.  These  quali- 
ties, by  which  the  priesthood  is  so  much  adorned,  represented 
the  duties  of  it  as  too  weighty  for  him ;  and  rendered  him  still 
the  more  worthy  of  that  honour,  which  they  made  him  decline. 
It  is  happy  that  this  very  circumstance  has  since  turned  so  much 
to  the  advantage  of  virtue  and  religion,  in  the  cause  of  which  he 
has  bestowed  his  labours  the  more  successfully,  as  they  were  his 
voluntary,  not  his  necessary  employment.  The  world  became  in- 
sensibly reconciled  to  wisdom  and  goodness,  when  they  saw  them 
recommended  by  him  with  at  least  as  much  spirit  and  elegance, 
as  they  had  been  ridiculed  for  half  a  century. 

He  was  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  when  his  inclination  to  see 
France  and  Italy  was  encouraged  by  the  great  Lord  Chancellor 
Somers,  one  of  that  kind  of  patriots,  who  think  it  no  waste  of  the 
public  treasure  to  purchase  politeness  to  their  country.  The 
poem  upon  one  of  King  William's  campaigns,  addressed  to  his 
Lordship,  was  received  with  great  humanity,  and  occasioned  a 

VOL.   T. — 1* 


lO  THE      PREFACE. 

message  from  him  to  tlie  author  to  desire  his  acquaintance.  He 
soon  after  obtained,  by  his  interest,  a  yearly  pension  of  three 
hundred  pounds  from  the  Crown,  to  support  him  in  his  travels. 
If  the  uncommonness  of  a  favour,  and  the  distinction  of  the  per- 
son who  confers  it,  enhance  its  value,  nothing  could  be  more  hon- 
ourable to  a  young  man  of  learning,  than  such  a  bounty  from  so 
eminent  a  patron. 

How  well  Mr.  Addison  answered  the  expectations  of  my 
Lord  Somers,  cannot  appear  better,  than  from  the  book  of 
Travels  he  dedicated  to  his  Lordship  at  his  return.  It  is  not 
hard  to  conceive,  why  that  performance  was  at  first  but  indiffer- 
ently relished  by  the  bulk  of  readers  ;  who  expected  an  account, 
in  a  common  way,  of  the  customs  and  policies  of  the  several  gov- 
ernments in  Italy,  reflections  upon  the  genius  of  the  people,  a 
map  of  their  provinces,  or  a  measure  of  their  buildings.  How 
were  they  disappointed,  when,  instead  of  such  particulars,  they 
were  presented  only  with  a  journal  of  poetical  travels,  with  re- 
marks on  the  present  picture  of  the  country,  compared  with  the 
landscapes  drawn  by  classic  authors,  and  others  the  like  uncon- 
cerning  parts  of  knowledge  !  One  may  easily  imagine  a  reader 
of  plain  sense,  but  without  a  fine  taste,  turning  over  these  parts 
of  the  volume,  which  make  more  than  half  of  it,  and  wondering, 
how  an  author,  who  seems  to  have  so  solid  an  understanding, 
when  he  treats  of  more  weighty  subjects  in  the  other  pages, 
should  dwell  upon  such  trifles,  and  give  up  so  much  room  to  mat- 
ters of  mere  amusement.  There  are,  indeed,  but  few  men  so 
fond  of  the  ancients,  as  to  be  transported  with  every  little  accident, 
which  introduces  to  their  intimate  acquaintance.  Persona  of  that 
cast  may  here  have  the -satisfaction  of  seeing  annotations  upon  an 
old  Roman  poem,  gathered  from  the  hills  and  vallies  where  it 
was  written.  The  Tyber  and  the  Po  serve  to  explain  the  verses, 
^hat  were  made  upon  theij;^  banks ;  and  the  Alps  and  Appeunines 


X  T  H  E     r  R  E  F  A  :  B  .  I  l 

are  made  commentators  on  those  authors,  to  whom  they  were 
subjects  so  many  centuries  ago.  Next  to  personal  conversation 
with  the  writers  themselves,  this  is  the  surest  way  of  coming  at 
their  sense :  a  compendious  and  engaging  kind  of  criticism,  which 
convinces  at  first  sight,  and  shews  the  vanity  of  conjectures,  made 
by  antiquaries  at  a  distance.  If  the  knowledge  of  polite  litera- 
ture has  its  use,  there  is  certainly  a  merit  in  illustrating  the  per- 
fect models  of  it,  and  the  learned  world  will  think  some  years  of 
a  man's  life  not  misspent  in  so  elegant  an  employment.  I  shall 
conclude  what  I  had  to  say  on  this  performance,  by  observing, 
that  the  fame  of  it  increased  from  year  to  year,  and  the  demand 
for  copies  was  so  urgent,  that  the  price  rose  to  four  or  five  times 
the  original  value,  before  it  came  out  in  a  second  edition. 

The  Letter  from  Italy  to  my  Lord  Halifax  may  be  considered 
as  the  text  upon  which  the  book  of  Travels  is  a  large  comment, 
and  has  been  esteemed  by  those  who  have  a  relish  for  antiquity, 
as  the  most  exquisite  of  his  poetical  performances.  A  transla- 
tion of  it  by  Signer  Salvini,  professor  of  the  Greek  tongue  at 
Florence',  is  inserted  in  this  edition,  not  only  on  the  account  of 
its  merit,  but  because  it  is  the  language  of  the  country  which  is 
the  subject  of  this  poem. 

The  materials  for  the  Dialogues  upon  Medals,  now  first  printed 
from  a  manuscript  of  the  author,  were  collected  in  the  native 
country  of  those  coins.  The  book  itself  was  begun  to  be  cast  into 
form  at  Vienna,  as  appears  from  a  letter  to  Mr.  Stepney,  then 
minister  at  that  court,  dated  in  November,  1702. 

Sometime  before  the  date  of  this  letter,  Mr.  Addison  had  de- 
signed to  return  to  England,  when  he  received  advice  from  his 
friends,  that  he  was  pitched  upon  to  attend  the  army  under  Prince 
Eugene,  who  had  just  begun  the  war  in  Italy,  as  secretary  from 
his  Majesty.  But  an  account  of  the  death  of  King  William, 
which  he  met  with  at  Geneva,  put  an  end  to  that  thought ;  and 


12  THE      riLEFACE. 

as  Lis  hopes  of  advancement  in  his  own  country  were  fallen  with 
the  credit  of  his  friends,  who  were  out  of  power  at  the  beginning 
of  her  late  Majesty's  reign,  he  had  leisure  to 'make  the  tour  of 
Germany  in  his  way  home. 

He  remained  for  some  time,  after  his  return  to  England,  with- 
out any  public  employment,  which  he  did  not  obtain  till  the  year 
1704,  when  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  arrived  at  the  highest  pitch 
of  glory,  by  delivering  all  Europe  from  slavery,  and  furnished 
Mr.  Addison  with  a  subject  worthy  of  that  genius  which  appears 
in  his  poem  called  The  Campaign.  The  Lord  Treasurer  Godol- 
phin,  who  was  a  fine  judge  of  poetry,  had  a  sight  of  this  work, 
when  it  was  only  carried  on  as  far  as  the  applauded  simile  of  the 
Angel ;  and  approved  the  poem,  by  bestowing  on  the  author,  in 
a  few  days  after,  the  place  of  Commissioner  of  Appeals,  va- 
cant by  the  removal  of  the  famous  Mr.  Locke  to  the  council  of 
trade. 

His  next  advancement  was  to  the  place  of  Under  Secretary, 
which  he  held  under  Sir  Charles  Hedges,  and  the  present  Earl 
of  Sunderland.  The  Opera  of  Rosamond  was  written* while  he 
possessed  that  employment.  What  doubts  soever  have  been 
raised  about  the  merit  of  the  music,  which,  as  the  Italian  taste 
at  that  time  begun  wholly  to  prevail,was  thought  sufficiently  in- 
excusable, because  it  was  the  composition  of  an  Englishman  ;  the 
poetry  of  this  piece  has  given  as  much  pleasure  in  the  closet,  as 
others  have  afforded  from  the  stage,  with  all  the  assistance  of 
voices  and  instruments. 

The  Comedy  called  The  Tender  Husband  appeared  much 
about  the  same  time,  to  which  Mr.  Addison  wrote  the  Prologue. 
Sir  Kichard  Steele  surprised  him  with  a  very  handsome  dedica- 
tion of  this  play,  and  has  since  acquainted  the  public,  that  he 
owed  some  of  the  most  taking  scenes  of  it  to  Mr.  Addison. 

His  next  step  in  his  fortune,  was  to  the  post  of  Secretary 


THE      PREFACE.  13 

under  the  late  Marquis  of  Wharton,  who  was  appointed  Lord 
Lieutenant  of  Ireland  in  the  year  1709.  As  I  have  proposed  to 
touch  but  very,  lightly  on  those  parts  of  his  life  which  do  not  re- 
gard him  as  an  author,  I  shall  not  enlarge  upon  the  great  reputa- 
tion he  acquired  by  his  turn  to  business,  and  his  unblemished  in- 
tegrity, in  t)iis  and  other  employments.  It  must  not  be  omitted 
here,  that  the  salary  of  the  Keeper  of  the  Records  in  Ireland  was 
considerably  raised,  and  that  post  bestowed  upon  him,  at  this 
time,  as  a  mark  of  the  Quoen's  favour.  He  was  in  that  kingdom, 
when  he  first  discovered  Sir  Richard  Steele  to  be  the  author  of 
The  Tatler,  by  an  observation  upon  Virgil,  which  had  been  by 
him  communicated  to  his  friend.  The  assistance  he  occasionally 
gave  him  afterwards  in  the  course  of  the  paper,  did  not  a  little 
contribute  to  advance  its  reputation  ;  *nd,  upon  the  change  of 
the  ministry,  he  found  leisure  to  engage  more  constantly  in  that 
work,  which,  however,  was  dropt  at  last,  as  it  had  been  taken  up, 
without  his  participation. 

In  the  last  paper,  which  closed  these  celebrated  performances, 
and  in  the  preface  to  the  last  volume.  Sir  Richard  Steele  has 
given  to  Mr.  Addison  the  honour  of  the  most  applauded  pieces  in 
that  collection.  But  as  that  acknowledgment  was  delivered  only 
in  general  terms,  without  directing  the  public  to  the  several  papers, 
Mr.  Addison,  who  was  content  with  the  praise  arising  from  his 
own  works,  and  too  delicate  to  take  any  part  of  that  which  be- 
longed to  others,  afterwards  thought  fit  to  distinguish  his  writings 
in  the  Spectators  and  Guardians,  by  such  marks  as  might  remove 
the  l^ast  possibility  of  mistake  in  the  most  undiscerning  readers. 
It  was  necessary  that  his  share  in  the  Tatlers  should  be  adjusted 
in  a  complete  collection  of  his  works  ;  for  which  reason  Sii 
Richard  Steele,  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  his  deceased 
friend,  delivered  to  him  by  the  editor,  was  pleased  to  mark  with 
his  own  hand  those  Tatlers  which  #are  inserted  in  this  edition, 


14  THEPREFACE. 

and  even  to  point  out  several,  io  the  writing  of  which  they  both 
were  concerned. 

The  plan  of  the  Spectator,  as  far  as  it  regards  the  feigned 
person  of  the  author,  and  of  the  several  characters  that  compose 
his  club,  was  projected  in^ concert  with  Sir  Richard  Steele.  And, 
because  many  passages  in  the  course  of  the  work  would  otherwise 
be  obscure,  I  have  taken  leave  to  insert  one  single  paper,  written 
by  Sir  Richard  Steele,  wherein  those  characters  are  drawn,  which 
may  serve  as  a  Dramatis  PersoncEj  or  as  so  many  pictures  for  an 
ornament  and  explication  of  the  whole.  As  for  the  distinct 
papers,  they  were  never  or  seldom  shown  to  each  other  by  their 
respective  authors,  who  fully  answered  the  promise  they  had 
made,  and  far  outwent  the  expectation  they  had  raised,  of  pur- 
suing their  labour  in  tire  same  spirit  and  strength  with  which  it 
was  begun.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  Mr.  Addison,  who 
made  little  or  no  use  of  letters  sent  in  by  the  numerous  corre- 
spondents of  the  Spectator,  to  have  executed  his  large  share  of 
this  task  in  so  exquisite  a  manner,  if  he  had  not  ingrafted  into  it 
many  pieces  that  had  lain  by  him  in  little  hints  and  minutes, 
which  he  from  time  to  time  collected,  and  ranged  in  order,  and 
moulded  into  the  form  in  which  they  now  appear.  Such  are  the 
Essays  upon  Wit,  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  the  Critique 
upon  Milton,  and  some  others,  which  I  thought  to  have  connected 
in  a  continued  series  in  this  edition ;  though  they  were  at  first 
published  with  the  interruption  of  writings  on  different  subjects. 
But  as  such  a  scheme  would  have  obliged  me  to  cut  off  several 
graceful  introductions  and  circumstances,  peculiarly  &-dapted  to 
the  time  and  occasion  of  printing  them,  I  durst  not  pursue  that 
attempt. 

The  Tragedy  of  Cato  appeared  in  public  in  the  year  1713, 
when  the  greatest  part  of  the  last  act  was  added  by  the  author 
to  the  foregoing,  which  he  hfd  kept  by  him  for  many  years.     He 


TIIEPREFACE.  15 

took  up  a  design  of  writing  a  play  upon  this  subject,  when  he  was 
very  young  at  the  University,  and  even  attempted  something  in 
it  there,  though  not  a  line  as  it  now  stands.  The  work  was  per- 
formed by  him  in  his  travels,  and  retouched  in  England,-without 
any  formed  resolution  of  bringing  it  upon  the  stage,  till  his  friends 
of  the  first  quality  and  distinction,  prevailed  with  him  to  put  the 
last  finishing  to  it,  at  a  time  wh^n  they  thought  the  doctrine  of 
liberty  very  seasonable.  It  is  in  every  body's  memory,  with  what 
applause  it  was  received  by  the  public ;  that  the  first  run  of  it 
lasted  for  a  month  ;  and  then  stopped,  only  because  one  of  the 
performers  became  incapable  of  acting  a  principal  part.  The 
author  received  a  message,  that  the  Queen  would  be  pleased  to 
have  it  dedicated  to  her  ;  but  as  he  had  designed  that  compliment 
elsewhere,  he  found  himself  obliged  by  his  duty  on  the  one  side, 
and  his  honour  on  the  other,  to  send  it  into  the  world  without  any 
dedication.  The  fame  of  this  Tragedy  soon  spread  through 
Europe,  and  it  has  not  only  been  translated,  but  acted  in  most 
of  the  languages  of  Christendom.  The  translation  of  it  into 
Italian,  by  Signer  Salvini,  is  very  well  known ;  but  I  have  not 
been  able  to  learn  whether  that  of  Signer  Yaletta,  a  young  Nea- 
politan nobleman,  has  ever  been  made  public. 

If  he  had  found  time  for  the  writing  of  another  tragedy, 
the  death  of  Socrates  would  have  been  the  story.  And,  however 
unpromising  that  subject  may  appear,  it  would  be  presumptuous 
to  censure  his  choice,  who  was  so  famous  for  raising  the  noblest 
plants  from  the  most  barren  soil.  It  serves  to  shew,  that  he 
thought  the  whole  labour  of  such  a  performance  unworthy  to  be 
thrown  away  upon  those  intrigues  and  adventures,  to  which  the 
romantic  taste  has  confined  modern  tragedy ;  and,  after  the  exam- 
ple of  his  predecessors  in  Greece,  would  have  employed  the 
drama  '  to  wear  out  of  our  minds  every  thing  that  is  mean,  or 
little;  to  cherisJi  and  cultivate  that  humanity  which  is  the  orna- 


16  THE      PREFACE. 

ment  of  our  nature ;  to  soften  insolence,  to  sooth  affliction,  and 
to  subdue  our  minds  to  the  dispensations  of  Providence.  '* 

Upon  the  death  of  the  late  Queen,  the  Lords  Justices,  in 
whom  the  administration  was  lodged,  appointed  him  their  Secre- 
tary. Soon  after  his  Majesty's  arrival  in  Great  Britain,  the 
Earl  of  Sunderland  being  constituted  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ire- 
land, Mr.  Addison  became  a  second  time  Secretary  for  the  affairs 
of  that  kingdom  ;  and  was  made  one  of  the  Lords  Commissioners 
of  Trade,  a  little  after  his  lordship  resigned  the  post  of  Lord 
Lieutenant. 

The  paper  called  the  Freeholder,  was  undertaken  at  the  time 
when  the  rebellion  broke  out  in  Scotland. 

The  only  works  he  left  behind  him  for  the  public,  are  the 
Dialogues  upon  Medals,  and  the  Treatise  upon  the  Christian 
Heligion.  Some  account  has  been  already  given  of  the  former, 
to  which  nothing  is  now  to  be  added,  except  that  a  great  part  of 
the  Latin  quotations  were  rendered  into  English,  in  a  very  hasty 
manner,  by  the  Editor,  and  one  of  his  friends,  who  had  the  good- 
nature to  assist  him,  during  his  avocations  of  business.  It  was 
thought  better  to  add  these  translations,  such  as  they  are,  than 
to  let  the  work  come  out  unintelligible  to  those  who  do  not 
possess  the  learned  languages. 

The  scheme  for  the  Treatise  upon  the  Christian  Religion  was 
formed  by  the  author  about  the  end  of  the  late  Queen's  reign ; 
at  which  time  he  carefully  perused  the  ancient  writings,  which 
furnish  the  materials  for  it.  His  continual  employment  in  busi- 
ness prevented  him  from  executing  it,  till  he  resigned  his  office 
of  Secretary  of  State ;  and  his  death  put  a  period  to  it,  when  he 
had  imperfectly  performed  only  one  half  of  the  design ;  he  hav- 
ing proposed,  as  appears  from  the  introduction,  to  add  the 
Jewish  to  the  heathenish  testimonies,  for  the  truth  of  the  Chris- 

•  Spectator,  No.  39. 


THE      PREFACE.  17 

tian  history.  He  was  more  assiduous  than  his  health  would  well 
allow  in  the  pursuit  of  this  work ;  and  had  long  determined  to 
dedicate  his  poetry  also,  for  the  future,  wholly  to  religious  sub- 
jects. 

Soon  after  he  was,  from  being  one  of  the  Lords  Commission- 
ers of  Trade,  advanced  to  the  post  of  Secretary  of  State,  he 
found  his  health  impaired  by  the  return  of  that  asthmatic  indis- 
position, which  continued  often  to  afflict  him  during  his  exercise 
of  that  employment,  and  at  last  obliged  him  to  beg  his  Majesty's 
leave  to  resign.  His  freedom  from  the  anxiety  of  business  so  far 
re-established  his  health,  that  his  friends  began  to  hope  he  might 
last  for  many  years ;  but  (whether  it  were  from  a  life  too  seden- 
tary, or  from  his  natural  constitution,  in  which  was  one  circum- 
stance very  remarkable,  that,  from  his  cradle,  he  never  had  a 
regular  pulse)  a  long  and  painful  relapse  into  an  asthma  and 
dropsy  deprived  the  world  of  this  great  man,  on  the  17th  of 
June,  1719.  He  left  behind  him  only  one  daughter,  by  the 
Countess  of  Warwick,  to  whom  he  was  married  in  the  year  1716. 

Not  many  days  before  his  death,  he  gave  me  directions  to 
collect  his  writings,  and  at  the  saijie  time  committed  to  my  care 
the  Letter  addrest  to  Mr.  Craggs  (his  successor  as  Secretary  of 
State)  wherein  he  bequeaths  them  to  him,  as  a  token  of  friend- 
ship. Such  a  testimony,  from  the  first  man  of  our  age,  in  such  a 
point  of  time,  will  be,  perhaps,  as  great  and  lasting  an  honour  to 
that  gentleman,  as  any  even  he  could  acquire  to  himself;  and  yet 
is  no  more  than  was  due  from  an  affection,  that  justly  increased 
towards  him,  through  the  intimacy  of  several  years.  I  cannot, 
without  the  utmost  tenderness,  reflect  on  the  kind  concern  with 
which  Mr.  Addison  left  Me  as  a  sort  of  incumbrance  upon  this 
valuable  legacy.  Nor  must  I  deny  myself  the  honour  to  acknow- 
ledge, that  the  goodness  of  that  great  man  to  me,  like  many 
other  of  his  amiable  qualities,  seemed  not  so  much  to  be  renewed 


18 


THE      PREFACE. 


as  continued  in  his  successor;  who  made  me  an  example,  that 
nothing  could  be  indiflferent  to  him,  which  came  recommended  by 
Mr.  Addison. 

Could  any  circumstance  be  more  severe  to  me,  while  I  was 
executing  these  last  commands  of  the  author,  than  to  see  the 
person,  to  whom  his  works  were  presented,  cut  off  in  the  flower 
of  his  age,  and  carried  from  the  high  office  wherein  he  had  suc- 
ceeded Mr.  Addison,  to  be  laid  next  him  in  the  same  grave  I  I 
might  dwell  upon  such  thoughts  as  naturally  rise  from  these 
minute  resemblances  in  the  fortune  of  two  persons,  whose  names, 
probably,  will  be  seldom  mentioned  asunder,  while  either  our 
language  or  story  subsist,  were  I  not  afraid  of  making  this  pre- 
face too  tedious ;  especially  since  I  shall  want  all  the  patience  of 
the  reader,  for  having  enlarged  it  with  the  following  verses.  , 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 

THE   EAKL    OF   WARWICK, 


ETC. 


IFj  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath  stay'd, 
And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid ; 
Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  bemoan, 
And  judge,  oh,  judge,  my  bosom,  by  your  own. 
What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires ! 
Slow  comes  the  verse  that  real  woe  inspires : 
G-rief  unafi"ected  suits  but  ill  with  art. 
Or  flowing  numbers  with  a  bleeding  heart. 
Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night,  that  gave 
My  soul's  best  parli^  for  ever  to  the  grave ! 
How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread, 
By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things, 
Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through  walks  of  kings  1 
What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  knell  inspire  ! 
The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir ; 
The  duties  by  the  lawn-rob'd  prelate  pay'd ! 
And  the  last  words,  that  dust  to  dust  convey'd  . 
While  speechless  o'er  thy  closing  grave  we  bend, 
Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend ! 
Ob,  gone  for  ever,  take  this  long  adieu ; 
And  sleep  in  peace  next  thy  lov'd  Montagu ! 


20  TO      THE      EARL      OF      WARWICK. 

To  strew  fresh  laurels,  let  the  task  be  mine  ; 
A  frequent  pilgrim  at  thy  sacred  shrine  ; 
Mine  with  true  sighs  thy  absence  to  bemoan, 
And  grave  with  faithful  epitaphs  thy  stone. 
If  e'er  from  me  thy  lov'd  memorial  part, 
May  shame  afflict  this  alienated  heart ; 
Of  thee  forgetful  if  I  form  a  song, 
My  lyre  be  broken,  and  untun'd  my  tongue. 
My  griefs  be  doubled,  from  thy  image  free, 
And  mirth  a  torment,  unchastis'd  b}^  thee. 

Oft  let  me  range  the  gloomy  isles  alone, 
(Sad  luxury  !   to  vulgar  minds  unknown,) 
Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles  show 
What  worthies  form  the  hallow'd  mould  below : 
Proud  names  who  once  the  reins  of  empire  held  j 
In  arms  who  triumph'd,  or  in  arts  excell'd ; 
Chiefs,  grac'd  with  scars,  and  prodigal  of  blood  ; 
Stern  patriots,  who  for  sacred  freedom  stood ; 
Just  men,  by  whom  impartial  laws  were  given ; 
And  saints,  who  taught,  and  led,  the  way  to  heaven. 
Ne'er  to  these  chambers,  where  the  mighty  rest, 
Since  their  foundation,  came  a  nobler  guest. 
Nor  e'er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bliss  convey'd 
A  fairer  spirit,  or  more  welcome  shade. 

In  what  new  region,  to  the  just  assign'd. 
What  new  employments  please  th'  unbody'd  mind  ? 
A  winged  Virtue,  through  th'  ethereal  sky. 
From  world  to  world  unweary'd  does  he  fly  ; 
Or  curious  trace  the  long  laborious  maze 
Of  heaven's  decrees,  where  wond'ring  angels  gaze  ? 
Does  he  delight  to  hear  bold  Seraphs  tell 
How  Michael  battl'd,  and  the  Dragon  fell  ? 


TO     THE     EARL      OF      W  A  R  W  I /)  K  .  21 

Or,  mixt  with  milder  Cherubim,  to  glow 

In  hymns  of  love,  not  ill  essay'd  below  ? 

Or  do'st  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 

A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind  ? 

Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend. 

To  me  thy  aid,  thou  guardian  Genius,  lend  I 

When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms. 

When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 

In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 

And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 

Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 

'Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more.  ' 

That  awful  form  (which,  so  ye  heavens  decree, 
Must  still  be  lov'd,  and  still  deplor'd  by  me). 
In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise, 
Or,  rous'd  by  fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 
If  business  calls,  or  crowded  courts  invite, 
Th'  unblemish'd  statesman  seems  to  strike  my  sight ; ' 
If  in  the  stage  I  seek  to  soothe  my  care, 
I  meet  his  soul,  which  breathes  in  Cato  there : 
If  pensive  to  the  rural  shades  I  rove. 
His  shape  o'ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  grove : 
'Twas  there  of  Just  and  Good  he  reason'd  strong,       \ 
Clear'd  some  great  truth,  or  rais'd  some  serious  song ;  \ 
There  patient  show'd  us  the  wise  course  to  steer, 
A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  severe ; 
There  taught  us  how  to  live ;  and  (oh !  too  high 
The  price  for  knowledge)  taught  us  how  to  die. 

Thou  hill  whose  brow  the  antique  structures  grace, 
Rear'd  by  bold  chiefs  of  Warwick's  noble  race. 
Why,  once  so  lov'd,  whene'er  thy  bower  appears. 
O'er  my  dim  eye-balls  glance  the  sudden  tears  ? 


22  TO      THE      EARL      OF      WARWICK. 

How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects,  fresh  and  fair 
Thy  sloping  walks,  and  unpolluted  air  ! 
How  sweet  the  gloom  beneath  thy  aged  trees, 
Thy  noon-tide  shadow,  and  thy  evening  breeze ! 
His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore ; 
Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no  more ; 
No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allay'd, 
Thy  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noon-day  shade. 

From  other  ills,  howevQf  fortune  frown'd. 
Some  refuge  in  the  musejs  art  I  found : 
Reluctant  now  I  touch  the  trembling  string, 
Bereft  of  him  who  taught  me  how  to  sing, 
And  these  sad  accents  murmur'd  o'er  his  urn. 
Betray  that  absence,  they  attempt  to  mourn. 
Oh !  must  I  then  (now  fresh  my  bosom  bleeds. 
And  Craggs  in  death  to  Addison  succeeds) 
The  verse,  begun  to  one  lost  friend,  prolong. 
And  weep  a  second  in  th'  unfinish'd  song ! 

These  works  divine,  which,  on  his  death-bed  laid, 
To  thee,  0  Craggs,  th'  expiring  Sage  convey'd, 
Great,  but  ill-omen'd  monument  of  fame. 
Nor  he  survived  to  give,  nor  thou  to  claim. 
Swift  after  him  thy  social  spirit  flies, 
And  close  to  his,  how  soon !  thy  coffin  lies. 
Blest  pair  !  whose  union  future  bards  shall  tell 
In  future  tongues :  each  other's  boast !  farewell. 
Farewell !  whom  join'd  in  fame,  in  friendship  tryM, 
i         No  chance  could  sever,  nor  the  grave  divide. 

Thomas  Tickell, 


TRANSLATIONS 


INTRODUCTORY    REMAKK8. 

[Of  Addison's  translations  Johnson  says : — "  His  translations,  so  far  as 
I  have  compared  them,  want  the  exactness  of  a  scholar.  That  he  under- 
stood his  authors  cannot  be  doubted :  but  his  verses  will  not  teach  others 
to  understand  them,  being  too  licentiously  paraphrastical.  They  are,  how- 
ever, for  the  most  part,  smooth  and  easy ;  and  what  is  the  first  excellence 
of  a  translator,  such  as  may  be  read  with  pleasure  by  those  who  do  not 
know  the  original."  The  same  critic  also  remarks: — "In  his  Georgick  he 
admits  broken  lines."  Dryden's  compliment  has  been  accused  of  insincer- 
ity. After  speaking  of  two  poets  who  had  put  him  to  great  labor  by 
their  superior  merit ; — "  The  most  ingenious  Mr.  Addison,  of  Oxford,  has 
also  been  as  troublesome  to  me  as  the  other  two,  and  on  the  same  account 
After  his  bees  my  latter  swarm  is  hardly  worth  the  hiving." 

These  translations  were  made  at  Oxford,  and  published  in  Tonson's 
Miscellanies.  A  letter  of  Addison  to  Tonson  without  the  date  of  the  year, 
gives  us  the  origin  of  the  translations  fi*om  Ovid.  "  Your  discussion  with 
me  about  translating  Ovid,  made  such  an  impression  on  me  at  my  first 
coming  down  from  London,  that  I  ventured  on  the  second  book,  which  I 
turned  at  my  leisure  hours,  and  will  give  you  a  sight  of  it  if  you  will  give 
yourself  the  trouble  of  reading  it." — G  ] 


A  TRANSLATION^  OF  ALL 

VIRGlL^S    FOURTH   GEORGICK, 

EXCEPT  THE  STORY  OF  ARISTA  US. 

Etherial  sweets  shall  next  my  muse  engage,* 
And  this,  Maecenas,  claims  your  patronage. 
Of  little  creatures  wondrous  acts  I  treat, 
The  ranks  and  mighty  leaders  of  their  state. 
Their  laws,  employments,  and  their  wars  relate. 
A  trifling  theme,  provokes  my  humble  lays. 
Trifling  the  theme,  not  so  the  poet's  praise, 
If  great  Apollo  and  the  tuneful  Nine 
Join  in  the  piece,  to  make  the  work  divine. 

First,  for  your  bees  a  proper  station  find. 
That's  fenc'd  about,  and  shelter'd  from  the  wind ; 
For  winds  divert  them  in  their  flight,  and  drive 
The  swarms,  when  loaden  homeward,  from  their  hive. 
Nor  sheep,  nor  goats,  must  pasture  near  their  stores, 
To  trample  under  foot  the  springing  flowers  ; 
Nor  frisking  heifers  bound  about  the  place, 
To  spurn  th^  ->  »li,  and  bruise  the  rising  grass : 

;  •  Etherial  sweets.  The  following  version,  though  it  be  exact  enough, 
for  the  most  part,  and  not  inelegant,  gives  us  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  ori- 
ginal. It  has  the  grace,  but  not  the  energy,  of  Virgil's  manner.  The 
late  Translator  of  the  Georgics*  has  succeeded  much  better.  The  versifi- 
cation (except  only  the  bad  rhymes)  may  be  excused ;  for  the  frequent 
triplets  and  alexandrines  (which  Dryden's  laziness,  by  the  favour  of  his 
exuberant  genius,  had  introduced)  were  esteemed,  when  this  translation 

•  was  made,  not  blemishes,  but  beauties. 

♦  Mr.  Nevllo. 
VOL     1.— 2 


26  TRANSLATIONS. 

Nor  must  the  lizard's  painted  brood  appear, 
Nor  wood-pecks,  nor  the  swallow  harbour  near. 
They  waste  the  swarms,  and  as  they  fly  along 
Convey  the  tender  morsels  to  their  young. 

Let  purling  streams,  and  fountains  edg'd  with  moss, 
And  shallow  rills  run  trickling  through  the  grass ; 
Let  branching  olives  o'er  the  fountain  grow, 
Or  palms  shoot  up,  and  shade  the  streams  below ; 
That  when  the  youth,  led  by  their  princes,  shun 
The  crowded  hive,  and  sport  it  in  the  sun, 
Refreshing  springs  may  tempt  'em  from  the  heat, 
And  shady  coverts  yield  a  cool  retreat. 

Whether  the  neighbouring  water  stands  or  runs, 
Lay  twigs  across,  and  bridge  it  o'er  with  stones ; 
That  if  rough  storms,  or  sudden  blasts  of  wind 
Should  dip,  or  scatter  those  that  lag  behind, 
Uere  they  may  settle  on  the  friendly  stone, 
And  dry  their  reeking  pinions  at  the  sun. 
Plant  all  the  flowery  banks  with  lavender. 
With  store  of  sav'ry  scent  the  fragrant  air. 
Let  running  betony  the  field  o'erspread. 
And  fountains  soak  the  violet's  dewy  bed. 

Tho'  barks  or  plaited  willows  make  your  hive, 
A  narrow  inlet  to  their  cells  contrive; 
For  colds  congele  and  freeze  the  liquors  up, 
And,  melted  down  with  heat,  the  waxen  buildings  drop 
The  bees,  of  both  extremes  alike  afraid, 
Their  wax  around  the  whistling  crannies  spread. 
And  suck  out  clammy  dews  from  herbs  and  flow'rs, 
To  smear  the  chinks,  and  plaister  up  the  pores ; 
For  this  they  hoard  up  glue,  whose  clinging  drops, 
Like  pitch,  or  bird-lime,  hang  in  stringy  ropes. 


G  E  O  R  G  I  C  K  .  27 

They  oft,  'tis  said,  in  dark  retirements  dwell. 
And  work  in  subterraneous  caves  their  cell ; 
At  other  times  th'  industrious  insects  live 
Tn  hollow  rocks,  or  make  a  tree  their  hive. 

Point  all  their  cliinky  lodgings  round  with  mud, 
And  leaves  most  thinly  on  yoiir  work  be  strow'd ; 
But  let  no  baleful  eugh-tree  flourish  near, 
Nor  rotten  marshes  send  out  streams  of  mire ; 
Nor  burning  crabs  grow  red,  and  crackle  in  the  fire. 
Nor  neighb'ring  caves  return  the  dying  sound, 
Nor  echoing  rocks  the  doubled  voice  rebound. 

Things  thus  prepar'd 

When  th'  under-world  is  seiz'd  with  cold  and  night. 
And  summer  here  descends  in  streams  of  light, 
'  The  bees  thro'  woods  and  forests  take  their  flight. 
They  rifle  ev'ry  flow'r  and  lightly  skim 
The  chrystal  brook,  and  sip  the  running  stream ; 
And  thus  they  feed  their  young  with  strange  delight, 
And  knead  the  yielding  wax,  and  work  the  slimy  sweet. 
But  when  on  high  you  see  the  bees  repair. 
Born  on  the  winds  thro'  distant  tracts  of  air. 
And  view  the  winged  cloud  all  blackning  from  afar ; 
While  shady  coverts,  and  fresh  streams  they  chuse, 
Milfoil  and  common  honey-suckles  bruise, 
And  sprinkle  on  their  hives  the  fragrant  juice. 
On  brazen  vessels  beat  a  tinkling  sound. 
And  shake  the  cymbals  of  the  goddess  round ; 
Then  all  will  hastily  retreat,  and  fill 
The  warm  resounding  hollow  of  their  cell. 

If  once  two  rival  kings  their  right  debate, 
And  factions  and  cabals  embroil  the  state, 


28  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  people's  actions  will  their  thoughts  declare  ; 
All  their  hearts  tremble,  and  beat  thick  with  war ; 
Hoarse  broken  sounds,  like  trumpets'  harsh  alarms, 
Run  thro'  the  hive,  and  call  'em  to  their  arms ; 
All  in  a  hurry  spread  their  shiv'ring  wings. 
And  fit  their  claws,  and  point  their  angry  stings  : 
In  crowds  before  the  king's  pavilion  meet. 
And  boldly  challenge  out  the  foe  to  fight : 
At  last,  when  all  the  heav'ns  are  warm  and  fair. 
They  rush  together  out,  and  join ;  the  air 
Swarms  thick,  and  echoes  with  the  humming  war. 
All  in  a  firm  round  cluster  mix,  and  strow 
With  heaps  of  little  corps  the  earth  below  ; 
As  thick  as  hail-stones  from  the  floor  rebound. 
Or  shaken  acorns  rattle  on  the  ground. 
No  sense  of  danger  can  their  kings  controul, 
Their  little  bodies  lodge  a  mighty  soul : 
Each  obstinate  in  arms  pursues  his  blow, 
'Till  shameful  flight  secures  the  routed  foe. 
This  hot  dispute  and  all  this  mighty  fray 
A  little  dust  flung  upward  will  allay. 

But  when  both  kings  are  settled  in  their  hive, 
Mark  him  who  looks  the  worst,  and  lest  he  live 
Idle  at  home  in  ease  and  luxury. 
The  lazy  monarch  must  be  doom'd  to  die  ; 
So  let  the  royal  insect  rule  alone, 
And  reign  without  a  rival  in  his  throne. 

The  kings  are  different ;  one  of  better  note 
All  speckt  with  gold,  and  many  a  shining  spot. 
Looks  gay,  ana  glistens  in  a  gilded  coat ; 
But  love  of  ease,  and  sloth,  in  one  prevails. 
That  scarce  his  hanging  paunch  behind  him  trails : 


Virgil's    fourth    georgick.  29 

The  people's  looks  are  different  as  their  king's, 
Some  sparkle  bright,  and  glitter  in  their  wings ; 
Others  look  loathsome  and  diseas'd  with  sloth, 
Like  a  faint  traveller,  whose  dusty  mouth 
Grows  dry  with  heat,  and  spits  a  maukish  froth. 

The  first  are  best 

From  their  o'erflowing  combs,  you'll  often  press      ^ 

Pure  luscious  sweets,  that  mingling  in  the  glass 

Correct  the  harshness  of  the  racy  juice, 

And  a  rich  flavour  through  the  wine  diffuse. 

But  when  they  sport  abroad,  and  rove  from  home. 

And  leave  the  cooling  hive,  and  quit  th'  unfinish'd  coml  , 

Their  airy  ramblings  are  with  ease  confin'd. 

Clip  their  king's  wings,  and  if  they  stay  behind 

No  bold  usurper  dares  invade  their  right. 

Nor  sound  a  march,  nor  give  the  sign  for  flight. 

Let  flow'ry  banks  entice  'em  to  their  cells. 

And  gardens  all  perfum'd  with  native  smells ; 

Where  carv'd  Priapus  has  his  fix'd  abode. 

The  robber's  terror,  and  the  scare-crow  god. 

WilS  thyme  and  pine-trees  from  their  barren  hill 

Transplant,  and  nurse  'em  in  the  neighbouring  soil, 

Set  fruit-trees  round,  nor  e'er  indulge  thy  sloth. 

But  water  'em,  and  urge  their  shady  growth. 

And  here,  perhaps,  were  I  not  giving  o'er, 
And  striking  sail,  and  making  to  the  shore, 
I'd  show  what  art  the  gardener's  toils  require, 
Why  rosy  paestum  blushes  twice  a  year ; 
What  streams  the  verdant  succory  supply. 
And  how  the  thirsty  plant  drinks  rivers  dry ; 
With  what  a  cheerful  green  does  parsley  grace. 
And  writhes  the  bellying  cucumber  along  the  twisted  grass ; 


30  TRANSLATIONS. 

Nor  wou'd  I  pass  the  soft  Acanthus  o'er, 

Ivy  nor  myrtle-trees  that  love  the  shore ; 

Nor  daflfodils,  that  late  from  earth's  slow  womb 

Unrumple  their  swoln  buds,  and  show  their  yellow  bloom. 

For  once  I  saw  in  the  Tarentine  vale, 
Where  slow  Galesus  drencht  the  washy  soil,  , 

Ah  old  Corician  yeoman  who  had  got 
A  few  neglected  acres  to  his  lot. 
Where  neither  corn  nor  pasture  grac'd  the  field, 
Nor  would  the  vine  her  purple  harvest  yield ; 
But  sav'ry  herbs  among  the  thorns  were  found. 
Vervain  and  poppy-flowers  his  garden  crown'd. 
And  drooping  lilies  whiten'd  all  the  ground. 
Blest  with  these  riches  he  could  empires  slight, 
And  when  he  rested  from  his  toils  at  night. 
The  earth  unpurchas'd  dainties  wou'd  afford. 
And  his  own  garden  furnish'd.out  his  board  : 
The  spring  did  first  his  opening  roses  blow,* 
First  ripening  autumn  bent  his  fruitful  bough. 
When  piercing  colds  had  burst  the  brittle  stone, 
And  freezing  rivers  stiffen'd  as  they  run. 
He  then  would  prune  the  tend'rest  of  his  trees. 
Chide  the  late  spring,  and  lingring  western  breeze : 
His  bees  first  swarm'd,  and  made  his  vessels  foam 
With  the  rich  squeezing  of  the  juicy  comb. 
Here  lindons  and  the  sappy  pkie  increas'd ; 
Here,  when  gay  flow'rs  his  smiling  orchard  drest, 

*  Roses  blow.  Not  usual  or  exact  to  use  the  word  blow  actively.  Yel 
Milton  speaks  of  ba7iks  that  blow  flowers,  (Mask  at  Ludlow  Castle,  page 
993.)  And,  indeed,  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  how  far  this  licentious  construc- 
tion, if  sparingly  used,  si  sumpfa  pudenfer,  may  be  allowed,  especially  in 
the  higher  poetry.  The  reason  is,  tliat  it  takes  the  expression  out  of  the 
tainenesa  of  prose,  and  pleases  by  its  noveltv,  more  than  it  disgusts  by  its 
irregularity :  and  whatever  pleases  in  this  degree,  is  poetical. 


As  many  blossoms  as  the  spring  could  sliow, 

So  many  dangling  apples  mellow'd  on  the  bough. 

In  rows  his  elm  and  knotty  pear-trees  bloom, 

And  thorns  ennobled  now  to  bear  a  plumb, 

And  spreading  plane-trees,  where  supinely  laid 

He  now  enjoys  the  cool,  and  quaffs  beneath  the  Shade. 

But  these,  for  want  of  room  I  must  omit, 

And  leave  for  future  poets  to  recite. 

Now  I'll  proceed  their  natures  to  declare. 
Which  Jove  himself  did  on  the  bees  confer ; 
Because,  invited  by  the  timbrel's  sound, 
Lodg'd  in  a  cave,  th'  almighty  babe  they  found. 
And  the  young  god  nurst  kindly  under  ground. 

Of  all  the  wing'd  inhabitants  of  air. 
These  only  make  their  young  the  publick  care  ; 
In  well-disposed  societies  they  live,  { 

And  laws  and  statutes  regulate  their  hive  ;\ 
Nor  stray  like  others,  unconfin'd  abroad, 
But  know  set  stations,  and  a  fix'd  abode : 
Each  provident  of  cold  in  summer  flies 
Thro'  fields,  and  woods,  to  seek  for  new  supplies, 
And  in  the  common  stock  unlades  his  thighs. 
Some  watch  the  food,  some  in  the  meadows  ply 
Taste  ev'ry  bud,  and  suck  each  blossom  dry ; 
Whilst  others,  lab'ring  in  their  cells  at  hi)me, 
Temper  Narcissus'  clammy  tears  with  gum, 
For  the  first  groundwork  of  the  golden  comb  ; 
On  this  they  found  their  waxen  works,  and  raise 
The  yellow  fabrick  on  its  glewy  base, 
^ome  educate  the  young,  or  hatch  the  seed 
With  vital  warmth,  and  future  nations  breed  ; 


83  TRANSLATIONS. 

Whilst  others  thicken  all  the  slimy  dews, 

And  into  purest  honey  work  the  juice  ; 

Then  fill  the  hollows  of  the  comb,  and  swell 

With  luscious  nectar  ev'ry  flowing  cell. 

By  turns  they  watch,  by  turns  with  curious  eyes 

Survey  the  heav'ns,  and  search  the  clouded  skies 

To  find  out  breeding  storms,  and  tell  what  tempests  rise. 

By  turns  they  ease  the  loaden  swarms,  or  drive, 

The  drone,  a  lazy  insect,  from  their  hive. 

The  work  is  warmly  ply'd  through  all  the  cells. 

And  strong  with  thyme  the  new-made  honey  smells. 

So  in  their  caves  the  brawny  Cyclops  sweat, 
When  with  huge  strokes  the  stubborn  wedge  they  beat, 
And  all  th'  unshapen  thunder-bolt  compleat ; 
Alternately  their  hammers  rise  and  fall  ; 
Whilst  griping  tongs  turn  round  the  glowing  ball. 
With  puffing  bellows  some  the  flames  increase, 
And  some  in  waters  dip  the  hissing  mass ; 
Their  beaten  anvils  dreadfully  resound, 
And  ^tna  shakes  all  o'er,  and  thunders  under  ground. 

Thus,  if  great  things  we  may  with  small  compare, 
.  The  busie  swarms  their  different  labours  share. 
Desire  of  profit  urges  all  degrees ; 
The  aged  insects  by  experience  wise, 
Attend  the  c(^b,  and  fashion  ev'ry  part, 
And  shape  the  waxen  fret-work  out  with  art : 
The  young  at  night,  returning  from  their  toils. 
Bring  home  their  thighs  clog'd  with  the  meadows'  spoils 
On  lavender,  and  saffron  buds  they  feed. 
On  bending  osiers,  and  the  balmy  reed, 
From  purple  violets  and  the  telle  they,  bring 
Their  gather'd  sweets,  and  rifle  all  the  spring. 


33 


All  work  together,  all  together  rest, 
The  morning  still  renews  their  labours  past ; 
Then  all  rush  out,  their  different  tasks  pursue, 
Sit  on  the  bloom,  and  suck  the  rip'ning  dew ; 
Again,  when  evening  warns  'em  to  their  home, 
"With  weary  wings  and  heavy  thighs  they  come, 
And  crowd  about  the  chink,  and  mix  a  drowsie  hum. 
Into  their  cells  at  length  they  gently  creep, 
There  all  the  night  their  peaceful  station  keep,- 
Wrapt  up  in  silence,  and  dissolv'd  in  sleep. 
None  range  abroad  when  winds  or  storms  are  nigh, 
Nor  trust  their  bodies  to  a  faithless  sky. 
But  make  small  journeys,  with  a  careful  wing. 
And  fly  to  water  at  a  neighbouring  spring ; 
And  least  their  airy  bodies  should  be  cast 
In  restless  whirls,  the  sport  of  ev'ry  blast. 
They  carry  stones  to  poise  'em  in  their  flight, 
As  ballast  keeps  th'  unsteady  vessel  right. 

But,  of  all  customs  that  the  bees  can  boast, 
Tis  this  may  challenge  admiration  most ; 
That  none  will  Hymen's  softer  joys  approve, . 
Nor  waste  their  spirits  in  luxurious  love,        / 
But  all  a  long  virginity  maintain. 
And  bring  forth  young  without  a  mother's  pain : 
From  herbs  and  flowers  they  pick  each  tender  bee, 
And  cull  from  plants  a  buzzing  progeny  ; 
From  these  they  chuse  out  subjects,  and  create 
A  little  monarch  of  the  rising  state  ; 
Then  build  wax-kingdoms  for  the  infant  prince, 
And  form  a  palace  for  his  residence. 

But  often  in  their  journeys,  as  they  fly. 
On  flints  they  tear  their  silken  wings,  or  lye 

VOL.    I.— 2* 


34  TRANSLATIONS. 

Grov'ling  beneath  their  flowery  load,  and  die. 

Thus  love  of  honey  can  an  insect  fire, 

And  in  a  fly  such  generous  thoughts  inspire. 

Yet  by  repeopling  their  decaying  state, 

Tho'  seven  short  springs  conclude  their  vital  date, 

Their  ancient  stocks  eternally  remain, 

And  in  an  endless  race  their  children's  children  reiga 

No  prostrate  vassal  of  the  East  can  more 
With  slavish  fear  his  haughty  prince  adore ; 
His  life  uni{es  'em  all ;  but  when  he  dies, 
All  in  loud  tumults  and  distractions  rise  ; 
They  waste  their  honey,  and  their  combs  deface, 
And  wild  confusion  reigns  in  every  place. 
Him  all  admire,  all  the  great  guardian  own. 
And  crowd  about  his  courts,  and  buzz  about  his  throne. 
Oft  on  their  backs  their  weary  prince  they  bear. 
Oft  in  his  cause  embattled  in  the  air, 
Pursue  a  glorious  death,  in  wounds  and  war. 

Some,  from  such  instances  as  these  have  taught 
"  The  bees'  extract  is  heavenly ;  for  they  thought 
The  universe  alive  ;  and  that  a  soul, 
Difi'us'd  throughout  the  matter  of  the  whole, 
To  all  the  vast  unbounded  frame  was  giv'n. 
And  ran  through  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  and  all  the  deep 

of  heaven ; 
That  this  first  kindled  life  in  man  and  beast. 
Life,  that  again  flows  into  this  at  last. 
That  no  compounded  animal  could  die. 
But  when  dissolv'd,  the  spirit  mounted  high. 
Dwelt  in  a  star,  and  settled  in  the  sky." 

When-e'er  their  balmy  sweets  you  mean  to  seize, 
And  take  the  liquid  labours  of  the  bees, 


I 


Virgil's    fourth    georgick.  35 

Spui-t  d'rauglits  of  water  from  your  mouth,  and  drive 
A  loathsome  cloud  of  smoak  amidst  their  hive. 

Twice  in  the  year  their  flow'ry  toils  begin, 
And  twice  they  fetch  their  dewy  harvest  in  ; 
Once,  when  the  lovely  Pleiades  arise. 
And  add  fresh  lustre  to  the  summer  skies ; 
And  once,  when  hast'ning  from  the  watry  sign, 
They  quit  their  station,  and  forbear  to  shine. 

The  bees  are  prone  to  rage,  and  often  found 
To  perish  for  revenge,  and  die  upon  the  wound. 
Their  venoni'd  sting  produces  aking  pains. 
And  swells  the  flesh,  and  shoots  among  the  veins. 

When  first  a  cold  hard  winter's  storms  arrive, 
And  threaten  death  or  famine  to  their  hive. 
If  now  their  sinking  state  and  low  affairs 
Can  move  your  pity,  and  provoke  your  cares. 
Fresh  burning  thyme  before  their  cells  convey, 
And  cut  their  dry  and  husky  wax  away ; 
For  often  lizards  seize  the  luscious  spoils. 
Or  drones,  that  riot  on  another's  toils : 
Ofb  broods  of  moths  infest  the  hungry  swarms. 
And  oft  the  furious  wasp  their  hive  alarms 
With  louder  hums,  and  with  unequal  arms ; 
Or  else  the  spider  at  their  entrance  sets 
Her  snares,  and  spins  her  bowels  into  nets. 

When  sickness  reigns  (for  they  as  well  as  we 
Feel  all  th'  effects  of  frail  mortality) 
By  certain  marks  the  new  disease  is  seen. 
Their  colour  changes,  and  their  looks  are  thin ; 
Their  funeral  rites  are  forin'd,  and  ev'ry  bee 
With  grief  attends  the  sad  solemnity ; 


S6  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  few  diseas'd  survivors  hang  before 
Their  sickly  cells,  and  droop  about  the  door, 
Or  slowly  in  their  hives  their  limbs  unfold, 
Shrunk  up  with  hunger,  and  benumb'd  with  cold ; 
In  drawling  hums,  the  feeble  insects  gi'ieve, 
And  doleful  buzzes  echo  thro'  the  hive, 
Like  winds  that  softly  murmur  thro'  the  trees, 
Like  flames  pent  up,  or  like  retiring  seas. 
Now  lay  fresh  honey  near  their  empty  rooms, 
In  troughs  of  hollow  reeds,  whilst  frying  gums 
Cast  round  a  fragrant  mist  of  spicy  fumes. 
Thus  kindly  tempt  the  famish'd  swarm  to  eat, 
And  gently  reconcile  'em  to  their  meat. 
Mix  juice  of  galls,  and  wine,  that  grow  in  time 
Condens'd  by  fire,  and  thicken  to  a  slime. 
To  these  dry'd  roses,  thyme  and  centry  join, 
And  raisins,  ripen'd  on  the  Psythian  vine. 

Besides,  there  grows  a  flow'r  in  marshy  ground, 
Its  name  Amellus,  easy  to  be  found ; 
A  mighty  spring  works  in  its  root,  and  cleaves 
The  sprouting  stalk,  and  shews  itself  in  leaves : 
The  flow'r  itself  is  of  a  golden  hue. 
The  leaves  inclining  to  a  darker  blue ; 
The  leaves  shoot  thick  about  the  flow'r,  and  grow 
Into  a  bush,  and  shade  the  turf  below : 
The  plant  in  holy  garlands  often  twines 
The  altars'  posts,  and  beautifies  the  shrines ; 
Its  taste  is  sharp,  in  vales  new-shorn  it  grows, 
Where  Mella's  stream  in  watry  mazes  flows. 
Take  plenty  of  its  roots,  and  boil  'em  well 
In  wine,  and  heap  'em  up  before  the  cell. 


Virgil's    fourth    georgicf  ^ 

But  if  the  whole  stock  fail,  and  none  survive ; 
To  raise  new  people,  and  recruit  the  hive, 
I'll  here  the  great  experiment  declare, 
That  spread  th'  Arcadian  shepherd's  name  so  far. 
How  bees  from  blood  of  slaughter'd  bulls  have  fled, 
And  swarms  amidst  the  red  corruption  bred. 

For  where  th'  Egyptians  yearly  see  their  bounds 
Refresh'd  with  floods,  and  sail  about  their  grounds, 
Where  Persia  borders,  and  the  rolling  Nile 
Drives  swiftly  down  the  swarthy  Indians'  soil, 
'Till  into  seven  it  multiplies  its  stream, 
And  fattens  Egypt  with  a  fruitful  slime  : 
In  this  last  practice  all  their  hope  remains, 
And  long  experience  justifies  their  pains. 

First  then  a  close  contracted  space  of  ground, 
With  streighten'd  walls  and  low-built  roof  they  found ; 
A  narrow  shelving  light  is  next  assign'd 
To  all  the  quarters,  one  to  every  wind  : 
Through  these  the  glancing  rays  obliquely  pierce : 
Hither  they  lead  a  bull  that's  young  and  fierce, 
When  two-years  growth  of  horn  he  proudly  shows,    _ 
And  shakes  the  comely  terrors  of  his  brows : 
His  nose  and  mouth,  the  avenues  of  breath, 
They  muzzle  up,  and  beat  his  limbs  to  death ; 
With  violence  to  life  and  stifling  pain 
He  flings  and  spurns,  and  tries  to  snort  in  vain, 
Loud  heavy  mows  fall  thick  on  ev'ry  side, 
'Till  his  bruis'd  bowels  burst  within  the  hide, 
When  dead,  they  leave  him  rotting  on  the  ground, 
With  branches,  thyme  and  cassia,  strow'd  around. 
All  this  is  done,  when  flrst  the  western  breeze 
Becalms  the  year,  and  smooths  the  troubled  seas ; 


38  TRANSLATIONS 

Before  the  chattering  swallow  builds  her  nest, 
Or  fields  in  spring's  embroidery  are  drest. 
Meanwhile  the  tainted  juice  ferments  within, 
And  quickens,  as  it  works :  And  now  are  see 
A  wond'rous  swarm,  that  o'er  the  carcass  crawls, 
Of  shapeless,  rude,  unfinish'd  animals. 
No  legs  at  first  the  insect's  weight  sustain, 
At  length  it  moves  its  new-made  limbs  with  pain  ; 
Now  strikes  the  air  with  quiv'ring  wings,  and  tries 
To  lift  its  body  up,  and  learns  to  rise ; 
Now  bending  thighs  and  gilded  wings  it  wears 
Full  grown,  and  all  the  bee  at  length  appears ; 
From  every  side  the  fruitful  carcass  pours 
Its  swarming  brood,  as  thick  as  summer-show'rs. 
Or  flights  of  arrows  from  the  Parthian  bows. 
When  twanging  strings  first  shoot  'em  on  the  foes. 
r       Thus  have  I  sung  the  nature  of  the  bee ;    \ 
/   While  Caesar,  tow'ring  to  divinity, 
v^  The  frighted  Indians  with  his  thunder  aw'd, 
\  And  claim'd  their  homage,  and  commenc'd  a  god 
\  I  flourish'd  all  the  while  in  arts  of  peace, 
jRetir'd  and  shelter'd  in  inglorious  ease : 
\  I  who  before  the  songs  of  shepherds  made, 
f  When  gay  and  young  my  rural  lays  I  play'd, 
,  And  set  my  Tityrus  beneath  his  shade. 


MILTON'S    STILE    IMITATED/* 

IN  A  TRANSLATION  OF  A  STORY  OUT  OF  THE  THIRD  .ENEID 

Lost  in  the  gloomy  horror  of  the  night 
We  struck  upon  the  coast  where  jS^tna  lies, 
Horrid  and  waste,  its  entrails  fraught  with  fire, 
That  now  casts  out  dark  fumes  and  pitchy  clouds, 
Vast  showers  of  ashes  hov'ring  in  the  smoke  ; 
Now  belches  molten  stones  and  ruddy  flame. 
Incenst,  or  tears  up  mountains  by  the  roots. 
Or  slings  a  broken  rock  aloft  in  air. 
The  bottom  works  with  smother'd  fire  involv'd 
In  pestilential  vapours,  stench  and  smoke. 

'Tis  said,  that  thunder-struck  Enceladus 
Groveling  beneath  th'  incumbent  mountain's  weight, 
Lyes  stretch'd  supine,  eternal  prey  of  flames ; 
And  when  he  heaves  against  the  burning  load, 
Reluctant,  to  invert  his  broiling  limbs, 
A  sudden  earthquake  shoots  through  all  the  isle, 
And  jEtna  thunders  dreadful  under  ground, 

['  These  imitations  of  celebrated  authors  were  favourite  exercises  with 
Pope,  who  was  much  more  successful  in  them  than  his  great  rival. 
Kurd's  "very  imperfectly,"  is  unquestionably  just;  but  his  "stiffness  and 
rigour"  of  Milton's  style  will  probably  be  classed  with  his  estimate  of 
Shakspeare  in  the  first  note  on  Cato. — G.] 


»  Milton's  stile  imitated.    Very  imperfectly.     What  we  find,  is  the  stiff- 
ness and  rii^our  of  Milton's  stile,  somewhat  eased  and  suppled  by  the  grace      ; 
of  Mr,  Addison's,  but  without  the  numbers  or  the  force  of  that  great  poet 


40 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Then  pours  out  smoke  in  wreathing  curls  convolv'd, 
And  shades  the  sun's  bright  orb,  and  blots  out  day. 

Here  in  the  shelter  of  the  woods  we  lodged, 
And  frighted  heard  strange  sounds  and  dismal  yells, 
Nor  saw  from  whence  they  came ;  for  all  the  night 
A  murky  storm  deep  louring  o'er  our  heads 
Hung  imminent,  that  with  impervious  gloom 
Oppos'd  itself  to  Cynthia's  silver  ray, 
And  shaded  all  beneath.     But  now  the  sun 
With  orient  beams  had  chas'd  the  dewy  night 
From  earth  and  heav'n  ;  all  nature  stood  disclos'd  : 
When  looking  on  the  neighb'ring  woods  we  saw 
The  ghastly  visage  of  a  man  unknown, 
rj'    H,  \        An  uncouth  feature,  meagre,  pale,  and  wild  ; 
\  Affliction's  foul  and  terrible  dismay 

Sate  in  his  looks,  his  face  impair'd  and  worn 
With  marks  of  famine,  speaking  sdre  distress  ; 
His  locks  were  tangled,  and  his  shaggy  beard 
Matted  with  filth ;  in  all  things  else  a  Greek. 

He  first  advanc'd  in  haste ;  but,  when  he  saw 
Trojans  and  Trojan  arms,  in  mid  career 
Stopt  short,  he  back  recoil'd  as  one  surpriz'd  : 
But  soon  recovering  speed,  he  ran,  he  flow 
Precipitant,  and  thus  with  piteous  cries 
Our  ears  assail'd :  "  By  heav'n's  eternal  fires, 
By  ev'ry  god  that  sits  enthron'd  on  high, 
By  this  good  light,  relieve  a  wretch  forlorn. 
And  bear  me  hence  to  any  distant  shore, 
So  I  may  shun  this  savage  race  accurst. 
'Tis  true  I  fought  among  the  Greeks  that  late 
With  sword  and  fire  o'erturn'd  Neptunian  Troy 
And  laid  the  labours  of  the  gods  in  dust; 


MILTON     S      STILE      IMITATED.  41 

For  which,  if  so  the  sad  offence  deserves, 
Plung'd  in  the  deep,  for  ever  let  me  lie 
Whelm'd  under  seas;  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 
Let  man  inflict  it,  and  I  die  well-pleas'd." 

He  ended  here,  and  now  profuse  of  tears  "^ 

In  suppliant  mood  fell  prostrate  at  our  feet : 
We  bade  him  speak  from  whence,  and  what  he  was, 
And  how  by  stress  of  fortune  sunk  thus  low  ; 
Anchises  too  with  friendly  aspect  mild 
Gave  him  his  hand,  sure  pledge  of  amity ; 
When,  thus  encouraged,  he  began  his  tale. 

I'm  one,  says  he,  of  poor  descent,  my  name 
Is  Achaemenides,  my  country  Greece, 
Ulysses'  sad  compeer,  who  whilst  he  fled 
The  raging  Cyclops,  left  me  here  behind 
Disconsolate,  forlorn ;  within  the  cave 
He  left  me,  giant  Polypheme's  dark  cave ; 
A  dungeon  wild  and  horrible,  the  walls 
On  all  sides  furr'd  with  mouldy  damps,  and  hung 
With  clots  of  ropy  gore,  and  human  limbs, 
His  dire  repast :  himself  of  mighty  size. 
Hoarse  in  his  voice,  and  in  his  visage  grim, 
Intractable,  that  riots  on  the  flesh 
Of  mortal  men,  and  swills  the  vital  blood. 
Him  did  I  see  snatch  up  with  horrid  grasp 
Two  sprawling  Greeks,  in  either  hand  a  man ; 
I  saw  him  when  with  huge  tempestuous  swg^ 
He  dasht  and  broke  'em  on  the  grundsil  edge ; 
The  pavement  swam  in  blood,  the  walls  around 
Were  spatter'd  o'er  with  brains.     He  lapt  the  blood, 
And  chew'd  the  tender  flesh  still  warm  with  life, 
That  swell'd  and  heav'd  itself  amidst  his  teeth 


42  TRANSLATIONS. 

As  sensible  of  pain.     Not  less  mean  while 

Our  chief  incens'd,  and  studious  of  revenge, 

Plots  his  destruction,  which  he  thus  effects. 

The  giant,  gorg'd  with  flesh,  and  wine,  and  blood, 

Lay  stretcht  at  length  and  snoring  in  his  den. 

Belching  raw  gobbets  from  his  maw,  o'er-charg'd 

With  purple  wine  and  cruddled  gore  confused. 

We  gather'd  round,  and  to  his  single  eye. 

The  single  eye  that  in  his  forehead  glar'd 

Like  a  full  moon,  or  a  broad  burnish' d  shield, 

A  forky  staff  we  dext'rously  apply'd, 

Which,  in  the  spacious  socket  turning  round, 

Scoopt  out  the  big  round  gelly  from  its  orb. 

But  let  ine  not  thus  interpose  delays ; 

Fly,  mortals,  fly  this  curst  detested  race : 

A  hundred  of  the  same  stupendous  size, 

A  hundred  Cyclops  live  among  the  hills, 

Gigantick  brotherhood,  that  stalk  along 

With  horrid  strides  o'er  the  high  mountains'  tops, 

Enormous  in  their  gait ;  I  oft  have  heard 

Their  voice  and  tread,  oft  seen  'em  as  they  past, 

Sculking  and  scowring  down,  half  dead  with  fear. 

Thrice  has  the  moon  wash'd  all  her  orb  in  light. 

Thrice  travell'd  o'er,  in  her  obscure  sojourn, 

The  realms  of  night  inglorious,  since  I've  liv'd 

Amidst  these  woods,  gleaning  from  thorns  and  shrubs 

A  wretched 'Sustenance.     As  thus  he  spoke 

We  saw  descending  from  a  neighb'ring  hill 

Blind  Polypheme ;  by  weary  steps  and  slow 

The  groping  giant  with  a  trunk  of  pine 

Explor'd  his  way ;  around  his  woolly  flocks 

Attended  grazing ;  to  the  well-known  shore 


Milton's    stile    imitated.  43 

He  bent  his  course,  and  on  the  margin  stood, 

A  hideous  monster,  terrible,  deform'd ; 

Full  in  the  midst  of  tis  high  front  there  gap'd 

The  spacious  hollow  where  his  eye-ball  roll'd, 

A  ghastly  orifice  :  he  rins'd  the  wound. 

And  wash'd  away  the  strings  and  clotted  blood 

That  cak'd  within ;  'then  stalking  through  the  deep 

He  fords  the  ocean,  while  the  topmost  wave 

Scarce  reaches  up  his  middle  side ;  we  stood 

Amaz'd  be  sure,  a  sudden  horror  chill 

Ran  through  each  nerve,  and  thrill'd  in  ev'ry  vein, 

'Till  using  all  the  force  of  winds  and  oars 

We  sped  away  ;  he  heard  us  in  our  course, 

And  with  his  out-stretch'd  arms  around  him  grop'd, 

But  finding  nought  within  his  reach,  he  rais'd 

Such  hideous  shouts  that  all  the  ocean  shook. 

Ev'n  Italy,  tho'  many  a  league  remote. 

In  distant  echoes  answer'd ;  ^tna  roar'd. 

Through  all  its  inmost  winding  caverns  roar'd. >- 

-    Rous'd  with  the  sound,  the  mighty  family 

Of  one-ey'd  brothers  hasten  to  the  shore. 

And  gather  round  the  bellowing  Polypheme, 

A  dire  assembly  :  we  with  eager  haste 

Work  ev'ry  one,  and  from  afar  behold 

A  host  of  giants  covering  all  the  shore. 

So  stands  a  forest  tall  of  mountain  oaks 
Advanced  to  mighty  growth  :  the   traveller 
Hears  from  the  humble  valley  where  he  rides 
The  hollow  murmurs  of  the  winds  that  blow 
Amidst  the  boughs,  and  at  the  distance  sees 
The  shady  tops  of  trees  unnumber'd  rise, 
A  stately  prospect  wavi4ig  in  the  clouds 


HOKACE. 

ODE  III.    BOOK  III. 

Augustus  had  a  design  to  rebuild  Troy^  and  make  it  tTie  Metropolis 
of  the  Roman  Empire^  Jiaving  closeted  several  Senators  on  the 
project:  Horace  is  supposed  to  hate  written  the  following  Ode  on 
this  occasion: — 

I  The  man  resolv'd  and  steady  to  his  trust, 
J^  Inflexible  to  ill,  and  obstinately  just, 
May  the  rude  rabble's  insolence  despise. 
Their  senseless  clamours  and  tumultuous  cries ; 
The  tyrant's  fierceness  he  beguiles. 
And  the  stern  brow,  and  the  harsh  voice  defies, 
And  with  superior  greatness  smiles. 

Not  the  rough  whirlwind,  that  deforms 
Adria's  black  gulf,  and  vexes  it  with  storms. 
The  stubborn  virtue  of  his  soul  can  move ; 
Not  the  red  arm  of  angry  Jove, 
That  flings  the  thunder  from  the  sky. 
And  gives  it  rage  to  roar,  and  strength  io  fly. 

Should  the  whole  frame  of  nature  round  him  break, 
In  ruin  and  confusion  hurl'd, 
He,  unconcern'd,  would  hear  the  mighty  crack,* 
And  stand  secure  amidst  a  falling  world. 

a  Crack.  Plainly  iised  here  for  the  sate  of  the  rhyme ;  for  the  poet 
knew  very  well  that  the  word  was  low  and  vulgar.  To  ennoble  it  a  little 
he  adds  the  epithet  "  mighty,"  which  yet,  has  only  the  effect  to  make  it 
even  ridiculous. 

[This  unfortunate  line  has  been  not  unworthily  recorded  in  the  "Art 
of  Sinking  in  Poetry."— G,]  , 


HORACE.  45 

Such  were  the  godlike  arts  that  led 
Bright  Pollux  to  the  blest  abodes  : 
Such  did  for  great  Alcides  plead, 
And  gain'd  a  place  among  the  gods  ; 
Where  now  Augustus,  mix'd  with  heroes,  lies, 
And  to  his  lips  the  nectar  bowl  applies  : 
His  ruddy  lips  the  purple  tincture  show, 
And  with  immortal  strains  divinely  glow. 

By  arts  like  these  did  young  Lyaeus  rise : 
His  tigers  drew  him  to  the  skies, 
Wild  from  the  desert  and  unbroke  : 
In  vain  they  foam'd,  in  vain  they  star'd. 
In  vain  their  eyes  with  fury  glar'd. 
He  tam'd  'em  to  the  lash,  and  bent  'em  to  the  yoke. 

Such  were  the  paths  that  Home's  great  founder  trod, 
When  in  a  whirlwind  snatch'd  on  high, 
He  shook  off  dull  mortality, 
And  lost  the  monarch  in  the  god. 
Bright  Juno  then  her  awful  silence  broke, 
And  thus  th'  assembled  deities  bespoke. 

Troy,  says  the  goddess,  perjur'd  Troy  has  felt 
The  dire  effects  of  her  proud  tyrant's  guilt ; 
The  towering  pile,  and  soft  abodes, 
Wall'd  by  the  hand  of  servile  gods, 
Now  spreads  its  ruins  all  around, 
And  lies  inglorious  on  the  ground. 
An  umpire,  partial  and  unjust. 
And  a  lewd  woman's  impious  lust, 
Lay  heavy  on  her  head,  and  sink  her  to  the  dust. 

Since  false  Laomedon's  tyrannic  sway, 
That  durst  defraud  th'  immortals  of  their  pay, 


46  TRANSLATIONS. 

Her  guardian  gods  renounc'd  their  patronage, 
Nor  would  the  fierce  invading  foe  repel ; 
To  my  resentment,  and  Minerva's  rage, 
The  guilty  king  and  the  whole  people  fell. 

And  now  the  long  protracted  wars  are  o'er, 
The  soft  adult'rer  shines  no  more; 
No  more  does  Hector's  force  the  Trojans  shield, 
That  drove  whole  armies  back,  and  singly  clear'd  the  field. 

My  vengeance  sated,  I  at  length  resign 
To  Mars  his  offspring  of  the  Trojan  line  : 
Advanc'd  to  god-head  let  him  rise, 
And  take  his  station  in  the  skies ; 
There  entertain  his  ravish'd  sight 
With  scenes  of  glory,  fields  of  light ; 
Quaff  with  the  gods  immortal  wine, 
And  see  adoring  nations  crowd  his  shrine : 

The  thin  remains  of  Troy's  afflicted  host, 
In  distant  realms  may  seats  unenvy'd  find, 
And  flourish  on  a  foreign  coast ; 
But  far  be  Rome  from  Troy  disjoined. 
Remov'd  by  seas,  from  the  disastrous  shore, 
May  endless  billows  rise  between,  and  storms  unnumber'd 
roar. 

Still  let  the  curst  detested  place. 
Where  Priam  lies,  and  Priam's  faithless  race, 
Be  cover'd  o'er  with  weeds,  and  hid  in  grass. 
There  let  the  wanton  flocks  unguarded  stray ; 
Or,  while  the  lonely  shepherd  sings ; 
Amidst  the  mighty  ruins  play. 
And  frisk  upon  the  tombs  of  kings. 

May  tigers  there,  and  all  the  savage  kind, 
Sad  solitary  haunts,  and  silent  deserts  find ; 


HORACE. 

In  gloomy  vaults,  and  nooks  of  palaces, 

May  th'  unmolested  lioness 

Her  brinded  whelps  securely  lay. 

Or,  coucht,  in  dreadful  slumbers  waste  the  day. 

While  Troy  in  heaps  of  ruins  lies, 
Rome  and  the  Roman  capitol  shall  rise ; 
Th'  illustrous  exiles  unconfin'd 
Shall  triumph  far  and  near,  and  rule  mankind. 

In  vain  the  sea's  intruding  tide 
Europe  from  Afric  shall  divide, 
And  part  the  sever'd  world  in  two : 
Through  Afric's  salids  their  triumphs  they  shall  sprca.l, 
And  the  long  train  of  victories  pursue 
To  Nile's  yet  undiscover'd  head. 
Riches  the  hardy  soldier  shall  despise, 
And  look  on  gold  with  undesiring  eyes. 
Nor  the  disbowel'd  earth  explore 
In  search  of  the  forbidden  ore ; 
Those  glitt'ring  ills  conceal'd  within  the  mine, 
Shall  lie  untouch'd,  and  innocently  shine. 
To  the  last  bounds  that  nature  sets. 
The  piercing  colds  and  sultry  heats. 
The  godlike  race  shall  spread  their  arms ; 
Now  fill  the  polar  circle  with  alarms. 
Till  storms  and  tempests  their  pursuits  confine 
Now  sweat  for  conquest  underneath  the  line. 

This  only  law  the  victor  shall  restrain, 
On  these  conditions  shall  he  reign  ; 
If  none  his  guilty  hand  employ 
To  build  again  a  second  Troy, 
If  none  the  rash  design  pursue, 
Nor  tempt  the  vengeance  of  the  gods  anew 


47^ 


48  TRANSLATIONS. 

A  curse  there  cleaves  to  the  devoted  place. 
That  shall  the  new  foundations  rase : 
Greece  shall  in  mutual  leagues  conspire 
To  storm  the  rising  town  with  fire, 
And  at  their  armies'  head  myself  will  show 
What  Juno,  urged  to  all  her  rage,  can  do. 

Thrice  should  Apollo's  self  the  city  raise, 
And  line  it  round  with  walls  of  brass, 
Thrice  should  my  fav'rite  Greeks  his  works  confound. 
And  hew  the  shining  fabric  to  the  ground ; 
Thrice  should  her  captive  dames  to  Greece  return. 
And  their  dead  sons  and  slaughter' d  liusbands  mourn. 

But  hold,  my  muse,  forbear  thy  towering  flight, 
Nor  bring  the  secrets  of  the  gods  to  light : 
In  vain  would  thy  presumptuous  verse 
Th'  immortal  rhetoric  rehearse  ;  * 
The  mighty  strains,  in  lyric  numbers  bound, 
Forget  their  majesty  and  lose  theirr  sound. 

•  Rehearse.  A  word  Mr.  Addison  is  very  fond  of,  because  it  afforded  a 
rhyme  for  verse :  but  it  disgraces  an  ode,  and  should,  indeed,  be  banished 
from  all  poetry. 


OVID'S     METAMORPHOSES. • 

BOOK  II. 
THE  STORY  OF  PHAETON. 

The  sun's  bright  palace,  on  high  columns  rais'd, 
"With  burnish'd  gold  and  flaming  jewels  blaz'd; 
The  folding  gates  diffus'd  a  silver  light, 
And  with  a  milder  gleam  refresh'd  the  sight ; 
Of  polish'd  ivory  was  the  cov'ring  wrought ; 
The  matter  vied  not  with  the  sculptor's  thought, 
For  in  the  portal  was  display'd  on  high 
(The  work  of  Vulcan)  a  fictitious  sky  ; 
A  waving  sea  th'  inferior  earth  embrac'd, 
A.nd  gods  and  goddesses  the  waters  grac'd. 
^geon  here  a  mighty  Avhale  bestrode ; 
Triton,  and  Proteus  (the  deceiving  god) 
With  Doris  here  were  carv'd,  and  all  her  train 
Some  loosely  swimming  in  the  figur'd  main, 
While  some  on  rocks  their  dropping  hair  divide. 
And  some  on  fishes  through  the  waters  glide : 
Tho'  various  features  did  the  Sisters  grace, 
A  sister's  likeness  was  in  every  face. 

•  Mr.  Addison  appears  to  have  been  mucli  taken  with  the  native  graces   i 
of  Ovid's  poetry.     The  following  translations  are  highly  finished  and  even  ,1 
laboured  (if  I  may  so  speak)  into  an  ease,  which  resembles  very  much,  and 
almost  equals,  that  of  his  author. 


60  TRANSLATIONS. 

On  earth  a  different  landskip  courts  the  eyes, 

Men,  towns,  and  beasts,  in  distant  prospects  rise, 

And  nymphs,  and  streams,  and  woods,  and  rural  deities. 

O'er  all,  the  heav'n's  refulgent  image  shines ; 

On  either  gate  were  six  engraven  signs. 

Here  Phaeton,  still  gaining  on  th'  ascent, 
To  his  suspected  father's  palace  went, 
Till  pressing  forward  through  the  bright  abode, 
He  saw  at  distance  the  illustrious  god : 
He  saw  at  distance,  or  the  dazzling  light 
Had  flash'd  too  strongly  on  his  aching  sight. 

The  god  sits  high,  exalted  on  a  throne 
Of  blazing  gems,  with  purple  garments  on  : 
The  hours,  in  order  rang'd  on  either  hand, 
And  days,  and  months,  and  years,  and  ages,  stand. 
Here  Spring  appears  with  flow*ry  chaplets  bound; 
Here  Summer  in  her  wheaten  garland  crown'd ; 
Here  Autumn  the  rich  trodden  grapes  besmear ; 
And  hoary  "Winter  shivers  in  the  rear. 

Phoebus  beheld  the  youth  from  off  his  throne ; 
That  eye,  which  looks  on  all,  was  fix'd  on  one. 
He  saw  the  boy's  confusion  in  his  face, 
Surpris'd  at  all  the  wonders  of  the  place ; 
And  cries  aloud,  "  What  wants  my  son  ?  for  know 
My  son  thou  art,  and  I  must  call  thee  so." 

"  Light  of  the  world,"  the  trembling  youth  replies, 
"  Hlustrious  parent !  since  you  don't  despise 
The  parent's  name,  some  certain  token  give, 
That  I  may  Clymene's  proud  boast  believe. 
Nor  longer  under  ftilse  reproaches  grieve." 

The  tender  sire  was  touch'd  with  what  he  said 
And  flung  the  blaze  of  glories  from  his  head, 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  51 

And  bid  the  youth  advance :  "  My  son,"  said  he, 
"  Come  to  thy  father's  arms  !  for  Clymene 
Has  told  thee  true :  a  parent's  name  I  own, 
And  deem  thee  worthy  to  be  call'd  my  son. 
As  a  sure  proof,  make  some  request,  and  I, 
Whate'er  it  be,  with  that  request  comply ; 
By  Styx  I  swear,  whose  waves  are  hid  in  night. 
And  roll  impervious  to  my  piercing  sight." 

The  youth  transported,  asks,  without  delay, 
To  guide  the  Sun's  bright  chariot  for  a  day. 

The  god  repented  of  the  oath  he  took. 
For  anguish  thrice  his  radiant  head  he  shook  ; 
'*  My  son,"  says  he,  "  some  other  proof  require. 
Rash  was  my  promise,  rash  is  thy  desire. 
I'd  fain  deny  this  wish  which  thou  hast  made. 
Or,  what  I  can't  deny,  would  fain  dissuade. 
Too  vast  and  hazardous  the  task  appears, 
Nor  suited  to  thy  strength,  nor  to  thy  years. 
Thy  lot  is  mortal,  but  thy  wishes  fly  . 

Beyond  the  province  of  mortality  : 
There  is  not  one  of  all  the  gods  that  dares 
(However  skill'd  in  other  great  affairs) 
To  mount  the  burning  axle-tree,  but  I ; 
Not  Jove  himself,  the  ruler  of  the  sky. 
That  hurls  the  three-fork'd  thunder  from  above, 
Dares  try  his  strength ;  yet  who  so  strong  as  Jove  ? 
The  steeds  climb  up  the  first  ascent  with  pain : 
And  when  the  middle  firmament  they  gain, 
If  downward  from  the  heavens  my  head  I  bow. 
And  see  the  earth  and  ocean  hang  below, 
Ev'n  I  am  seiz'd  with  horror  and  affright; 
And  my  own  heart  misgives  me  at  the  sight. 


52  TRANSLATIONS. 

A  mighty  downfal  steeps  the  ev'ning  stage, 
And  steady  reins  must  curb  the  horses'  rage. 
Tethys  herself  has  fear'd  to  see  me  driv'n 
Down  headlong  from  the  precipice  of  heaven. 
Besides,  consider  what  impetuous  force 
Turns  stars  and  planets  in  a  different  course : 
I  steer  against  their  motions ;  nor  am  I 
Borne  back  by  all  the  current  of  the  sky. 
But  how  could  you  resist  the  orbs  that  roll 
In  adverse  whirls,  and  stem  the  rapid  pole  ? 
But  you  perhaps  may  hope  for  pleasing  woods, 
And  stately  domes,  and  cities  fill'd  with  gods ; 
While  through  a  thousand  snares  your  progress  lies, 
Where  forms  of  starry  monsters  stooji  the  skies : 
For,  should  you  hit  the  doubtful  way  aright, 
The  Bull  with  stooping  horns  stands  opposite ; 
Next  him  the  bright  Haempnian  Bow  is  strung  ; 
And  next,  the  Lion's  grinning  visage  hung : 
The  Scorpion's  claws  here  clasp  a  wide  extent. 
And  here  the  Crab's  in  lesser  clasps  are  bent. 
Nor  would  you  find  it  easy  to  compose 
The  mettled  steeds,  when  from  their  nostrils  flows 
The  scorching  fire,  that  in  their  entrails  glows. 
Ev'n  I  their  head-strong  fury  scarce  restrain. 
When  they  grow  warm  and  restiff  to  the  rein. 
Let  not  my  son  a  fatal  gift  require, 
But,  0  !  in  time  recal  your  rash  desire ; 
You  ask  a  gift  that  may  your  parent  tell, 
Let  the^'e  my  fears  your  parentage  reveal ; 
And  learn  a  father  from  a  father's  care : 
Look  on  my  face ;  or  if  my  heart  lay  bare. 
Could  you  but  I.»ck,  you'd  read  the  father  thert). 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  53 

Chuse  out  a  gift  from  seas,  or  earth,  or  skies, 
For  open  to  your  wisli  all  nature  lies, 
Only  decline  this  one  unequal  task, 
For  'tis  a  mischief,  not  a  gift  you  ask ; 
You  ask  a  real  mischief,  Phaeton : 
Nay,  -hang  not  thus  about  my  neck,  my  son : 
I  grant  your  wish,  and  Styx  has  heard  my  voice, 
Chuse  what  you  will,  but  make  a  wiser  choice." 
Thus  did  the  god  th'  unwary  youth  advise ; 
But  he  still  longs  to  travel  through  the  skies. 
"When  the  fond  father  (for  in  vain  he  pleads) 
At  length  to  the  Vulcanian  chariot  leads. 
A  golden  axle  did  the  work  uphold, 
Gold  was  the  beam,  the  wheels  were  orb'd  with  gold. 
The  spokes  in  rows  of  silver  pleas'd  the  sight, 
The  seat  with  party-colour'd  gems  was  bright ; 
Apollo  shined  amid  the  glare  of  light. 
The  youth  with  secret  joy  the  work  surveys  ; 
When  now  the  morn  disclos'd  her  purple  rays  ; 
The  stars  were  fled ;  for  Lucifer  had  chas'd 
The  stars  away,  and  fled  himself  at  last. 
Soon  as  the  father  saw  the  rosy  morn, 
And  the  moon  shining  with  a  blunter  horn, 
He  bid  the  nimble  Hours  without  delay 
Bring  forth  the  steeds  ;  the  nimble  Hours  obey : 
From  their  full  racks  the  gen'rous  steeds  retire, 
Dropping  ambrosial  foams,  and  snorting  fire. 
Still  anxious  for  his  son,  the  god  of  day. 
To  make  him  proof  against  the  burning  ray, 
His  temples  with  celestial  ointment  wet. 
Of  sov'reign  virtue  to  repel  the  heat ; 


64        ♦  TRANSLATIONS. 

Then  fix'd  the  beamy  circle  on  his  head, 
And  fetch'd  a  deep  foreboding  sigh,  and  said, 

"  Take  this  at  least,  this  last  advice,  my  son : 
'  Keep  a  stiff  rein,  and  move  but  gently  on  : 
The  coursers  of  themselves  will  run  too  fast, 
Your  art  must  be  to  moderate  their  haste. 
Drive  'em  not  on  directly  through  the  skies. 
But  where  the  Zodiac's  winding  circle  lies, 
Along  the  midmost  zone  ;  but  sally  forth 
Nor  to  the  distant  south,  nor  stormy  north. 
The  horses'  hoofs  a  beaten  track  will  show, 
But  neither  mount  too  high,  nor  sink  too  low. 
That  no  new  fires  or  heaven  or  earth  infest ; 
Keep  the  mid-way,  the  middle  way  is  best. 
Nor,  where  in  radiant  folds  the  Serpent  twines. 
Direct  your  course,  nor  where  the  Altar  shines. 
Shun  both  extremes  ;  the  rest  let  Fortune  guide, 
And  better  for  thee  than  thy  self  provide  ! 
See,  while  I  speak,  the  shades  disperse  away, 
Aurora  gives  the  promise  of  a  day ; 
I'm  caird,  nor  can  I  make  a  longer  stay. 
Snatch  up  the  reins ;  or  still  th'  attempt  forsake, 
And  not  my  chariot,  but  my  counsel  take, 
While  yet  securely  on  the  earth  you  stand ; 
Nor  touch  the  horses  with  too  rash  a  hand. 
Let  me  alone  to  light  the  world,  while  you 
Enjoy  those  beams  which  you  may  safely  view." 
He  spoke  in  vain  :  the  youth  with  active  heat 
And  sprightly  vigour  vaults  into  the  seat ; 
And  joys  to  hold  the  reins,  and  fondly  gives 
Those  thanks  his  father  with  remorse  receives. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  55 

Mean  while  the  restless  horses  neigh'd  aloud, 
Breathing  out  fire,  and  pawing  where  they  stood. 
Tethys,  not  knowing  what  had  past,  gave  way, 
And  all  the  waste  of  heaven  before  'em  lay. 
They  spring  together  out,  and  swiftly  bear 
The  flying  youth  through  clouds  and  yielding  air ; 
"With  wingy  speed  outstrip  the  eastern  wind, 
And  leave  the  breezes  of  the  morn  behind. 
The  youth  was  light,  nor  could  he  fill  the  seat, 
Or  poise-  the  chariot  with  its  wonted  weight : 
But  as  at  sea  th'  unballass'd  vessel  rides. 
Cast  to  and  fro,  the  sport  of  winds  and  tides  ; 
So  in  the  bounding  chariot  toss'd  on  high. 
The  youth  is  hurry'd  headlong  through  the  sky. 
Soon  as  the  steeds  perceive  it,  they  forsake 
Their  stated  course,  and  leave  the  beaten  track. 
The  youth  was  in  a  maze,  nor  did  he  know 
Which  way  to  turn  the  reins,  or  where  to  go  ; 
Nor  wou'd  the  horses,  had  he  known,  obey. 
Then  the  Seven  Stars  first  felt  Apollo's  ray. 
And  wish'd  to  dip  in  the  forbidden  sea. 
The  folded  Serpent  next  the  frozen  pole, 
Stiff  and  benum'd  before,  began  to  roll. 
And  rag'd  with  inward  heat,  and  threaten'd  war. 
And  shot  a  redder  light  from  every  star ; 
Nay,  and  'tis  said,  Bootes  too,  that  fain 
Thou  would'st  have  fled,  tho'  cumbered  with  thy  wain, 

Th'  unhappy  youth  then,  bending  down  his  head, 
Saw  earth  and  ocean  far  beneath  him  spread : 
His  colour  chang'd,  he  startled  at  the  sight. 
And  his  eyes  darken 'd  by  too  great  a  light. 


56  TRANSLATIONS. 

Now  could  he  wish  the  fiery  steeds  untry'd, 
His  birth  obscure,  and  his  request  deny'd  : 
Now  would  he  Merops  for  his  father  owr, 
And  quit  his  boasted  kindred  to  the  Sun. 

So  fares  the  pilot,  when  his  ship  is  toss'd 
In  troubled  seas,  and  all  its  steerage  lost, 
Ho^gives  her  to  the  winds,  and  in  despair 
Seeks  his  last  refuge  in  the  gods  and  prayer. 

What  cou^d  he  do  ?  his  eyes,  if  backward  cast, 
Find  a  long  path  he  had  already  past ; 
If  forward,  still  a  longer  path  they  find  : 
Both  he  compares,  and  measures  in  his  mind  ; 
And  sometimes  easts  an  eye  upon  the  east,  ^ 

And  sometimes  looks  on  the  forbidden  west. 
The  horses'  names  he  knew  not  in  the  fright . 
Nor  wou'd  he  loose  the  reins,  nor  could  he  hold  'em  tight. 

Now  all  the  horrors  of  the  heavens  he  spies, 
And  monstrous  shadows  of  prodigious  size. 
That  deck'd  with  stars,  lie  scatter'd  o'er  the  skies. 
There  is  a  place  above,  where  Scorpio  bent 
In  tail  and  arms  surrounds  a  vast  extent ; 
In  a  wide  circuit  of  the  heavens  he  shines, 
And  fills  the  space  of  two  celestial  signs. 
Soon  as  the  youth  beheld  him,  vex'd  with  heat, 
Brandish  his  sting,  and  in  his  poison  sweat. 
Half  dead  with  sudden  fear  he  dropt  the  reins  ; 
The. horses  felt  'em  loose  upon  their  man -s, 
And,  flying  out  tlirough  all  the  pliiins  ab  »ve, 
Han  uncontrol'd  where'er  their  fury  droTt ; 
Rush'd  on  the  stars,  and  through  a  pathless  way 
Of  unknown  regions  hurry'd  on  the  day. 


OVID^S      METAMORPHOSES.  57 

And  now  above,  and  now  below  they  flew, 
And  near  the  earth  the  burning  chariot  drew. 

The  clouds  disperse  in  fumes,  the  wond'ring  Moon         ^ 
Beholds  her  brother's  steeds  beneath  her  own ; 
The  highlands  smoke,  cleft  by  the  piercing  rays, 
Or,  clad  with  woods,  in  their  own  fuel  blaze. 
Next  o'er  the  plains,  where  ripen'd  harvests  grow, 
The  running  conflagration  spreads  below. 
But  these  are  trivial  ills :  whole  cities  burn, 
And  peopled  kingdoms  into  ashes  turn. 

The  mountains  kindle  as  the  car  draws  near, 
Athos  and  Tmolus  red  with  fires  appear ; 
(Eagrian  Haemus  (then  a  single  name) 
And  virgin  Helicon  increase  the  flame ; 
Taurus  and  Oete  glare  amid  the  sky, 
And  Ida,  spite  of  all  her  fountains,  dry. 
Eryx,  and  Othrys,  and  Cithaeron,  glow ; 
And  Rhodope,  no  longer  cloth'd  in  snow ; 
High  Pindus,  Mimas,  and  Parnassus,  sweat, 
And  ^tna  rages  with  redoubled  heat. 
Even  Scythia,  through  her  hoary  regions  warm'd, 
In  vain  with  all  her  native  frost  was  arm'd. 
Cover'd  with  flames,  the  tow'ring  Appennine, 
And  Caucasus,  and  proud  Oljnnpus,  shine : 
And,  where  the  long-extended  Alps  aspire. 
Now  stands  a  huge  continu'd  range  of  fire. 

Th'  astonish'd  youth,  where'er  his  eyes  could  turn» 
Beheld  the  universe  around  him  burn : 
The  world  was  iu  a  blaze ;  nor  could  he  bear 
The  sultry  vapours  and  the  scorching  air, 
Which  from  below,  as  from  a  furnace  flow'd ; 
And  now  the  axle-tree  beneath  him  glow'd : 
VOL.  I. — 3* 


58  TRANSLATIONS. 

Lost  in  the  whirling  clouds,  that  round  him  broke, 
•    And  white  with  ashes,  hov'ring  in  the  smoke, 
He  flew  where'er  the  horses  drove,  nor  knew 
Whither  the  horses  drove,  or  where  he  flew. 

'Twas  then,  they  say,  the  swarthy  Moor  begun 
To  change  his  hue,  and  blacken  in  the  sun. 
Then  Lybia  first,  of  all  her  moisture  drain'd, 
Became  a  barr'en  waste,  a  wild  of  sand. 
The  water-nymphs  lament  their  empty  urns, 
Boeotia,  robb'd  of  silver  Dirce,  mourns, 
Corinth  Pyrene's  wasted  spring  bewails, 
And  Argos  grieves  whilst  Amymone  fails. 

The  floods  are  drain'd  from  every  distant  coast 
Even  Tanais,  tho'  fix'd  in  ice,  was  lost, 
Enrag'd  Caicus  and  Lycormas  roar, 
And  Xanthus,  fated  to  be  burnt  once  more. 
The  fam'd  Mseander,  that  un weary 'd  strays 
Through  mazy  windings,  smokes  in  every  maze. 
From  his  lov'd  Babylon  Euphrates  flies ; 
The  big-swoln  Ganges  and  the  Danube  rise 
In  thick'ning  fumes,  and  darken  half  the  skies. 
In  flames  Ismenos  and  the  Phasis  roU'd, 
And  Tagus  floating  in  his  melted  gold. 
The  swans,  that  on  Cayster  often  try'd 
Their  tuneful  songs,  now  sung  their  last,  and  dy'd. 
The  frighted  Nile  ran  ofi",  and  under  ground 
Conceal'd  his  head,  nor  can  it  yet  be  found : 
His  seven  divided  currents  all  are  dry, 
And  where  they  roll'd,  seven  gaping  trenches  lie. 
No  more  the  Bhine  or  Rhone  their  course  maintain, 
Nor  Tiber  of  his  promis'd  empire  vain. 


59 


The  ground,  deep  cleft,  admits  the  dazzling  ray, 
And  startles  Pluto  with  the  flash  of  day. 
The  sea  shrinks  in,  and  to  the  sight  disclose 
Wide  naked  plains,  where  once  their  billows  rose ; 
Their  rocks  are  all  discover'd,  and  increase 
The  number  of  the  scatter'd  Cyclades. 
The  fish  in  shoals  about  the  bottom  creep, 
Nor  longer  dares  the  crooked  dolphin  leap : 
Gasping  for  breath,  th'  unshapen  Phocse  die, 
And  on  the  boiling  wave  extended  lie. 
Nereus,  and  Doris  with  her  virgin  train. 
Seek  out  the  last  recesses  of  the  main ; 
Beneath  unfathoma,ble  depths  they  faint. 
And  secret  in  their  gloomy  caverns  pant. 
Stern  Neptune  thrice  above  the  waves  upheld 
His  face,  and  thrice  was  by  the  flames  repell'd. 

The  Earth  at  length,  on  every  side  embrac'd 
With  scalding  seas,  that  floated  round  her  waist, 
When  now  she  felt  the  springs  and  rivers  come. 
And  crowd  within  the  hollow  of  her  womb, 
Uplifted  to  the  heavens  her  blasted  head. 
And  clapt  her  hand  upon  her  brows,  and  said ; 
(But  first,  impatient  of  the  sultry  heat. 
Sunk  deeper  down,  and  sought  a  cooler  seat ;) 
"  If  you,  great  king  of  gods,  my  death  approve. 
And  I  deserve  it,  let  me  die  by  Jove ; 
If  I  must  perish  by  the  force  of  fire. 
Let  me  transfix'd  with  thunderbolts  expire. 
See,  whilst  I  speak,  my  breath  the  vapours  choke, 
(For  now  her  face  lay  wrapt  in  clouds  of  smoke) 
See  my  singed  hj^ir,  behold  my  faded  eye. 
And  withey'd  face,  where  heaps  of  cinders  lie  I 


60  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  does  the  plough  for  this  my  body  tear  ? 

This  the  reward  for  all  the  fruits  I  bear, 

Tortur'd  with  rakes,  and  harass'  ^\<^  year  ? 

That  herbs  for  cattle  daily  I  rei/ : 

And  food  for  man,  and  frankincense  for  you  ? 

But  grant  me  guilty  ;  what  has  Neptune  done  ? 

"Why  are  his  waters  boiling  in  the  sun  ? 

The  wavy  empire,  which  by  lot  was  given. 

Why  does  it  waste,  and  further  shrink  fiom  heaven  ? 

If  I  nor  he  your  pity  can  provoke. 

See  your  own  heavens,  the  heavens  begin  to  smoke  ! 

Should  once  the  sparkles  catch  those  bright  abodes, 

Destruction  seizes  on  the  heavens  and  gods  ; 

Atlas  becomes  unequal  to  his  freight. 

And  almost  faints  beneath  the  glowing  weight. 

The  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea,  together  burn, 

All  must  again  into  their  chaos  turn. 

Apply  some  speedy  cure,  prevent  our  fate, 

And  succour  nature,  e'er  it  be  too  late." 

She  ceas'd ;  for  chok'd  with  vapours  round  her  spread, 

Down  to  the  deepest  shades  she  sunk  her  head. 

Jove  call'd  to  witness  every  power  above, 
And  even  the  god,  whose  son  the  chariot  drove, 
That  what  he  acts  he  is  compell'd  to  do, 
Or  universal  ruin  must  ensue. 
Strait  he  ascends  the  high  ethereal  throne, 
From  whence  he  us'd  to  dart  his  thunder  down, 
From  whence  his  showers  and  storms  he  us'd  to  pour 
But  now  could  meet  with  neither  storm  nor  shower. 
Then,  aimhig  at  the  youth,  with  lifted  hand, 
FuU  t^t  his  head  he  hurl'd  the  forky  brand, 


61 


In  dreadful  thund'rings.     Thus  the  almighty  sire 
Suppress'd  the  raging  of  the  fires  »with  fire. 

At  once  from  life,  and  from  the  chariot  driven, 
Th'  ambitious  boy  fell  thunder-struck  from  heaven 
The  horses  started  with  a  sudden  bound, 
And  flung  the  reins  and  chariot  to  the  ground  : 
The  studded  harness  from  their  necks  they  broke, 
Here  fell  a  wheel,  and  here  a  silver  spoke, 
Here  were  the  beam  and  axle  torn  away ; 
And,  Bcatter'd  o'er  the  earth,  the  shining  fragments  lay. 
The  breathless  Phaeton,  with  flaming  hair, 
Shot  from  the  chariot  like  a  falling  star, 
That  in  a  summer's  evening  from  the  top 
Of  heaven  drops  down,  or  seen?s  at  least  to  drop ; 
Till  on  the  Po  his  blasted  corpse  was  hurl'd, 
Far  from  his  country,  in  the  western  world. 

PHAETON'S  SISTEES  TEANSFOEMED  INTO  TEEES. 

The  Latian  nymphs  came  round  him,  and  amaz'd 
On  the  dead  youth,  transfix'd  with  thunder,  gaz'd ; 
And,  whilst  yet  smoking  from  the  bolt  he  lay, 
His  shatter 'd  body  to  a  tomb  convey, 
And  o'er  the  tomb  an  epitaph  devise  : 
*'  Here  he  who  drove  the  sun's  bright  chariot  lies  ; 
His  father's  fiery  steeds  he  could  not  guide, 
But  in  the  glorious  enterprise  he  dy'd." 

Apollo  hid  hi^  face,  and  pin'd  for  grief, 
And,  if  the  story  may  deserve  belief, 
The  space  of  one  whole  day  is  said  to  run, 
From  morn  to  wonted  even,  without  a  sun : 
The  burning  ruins,  with  a  fainter  ray, 
Supply  the  sun,  and  counterfeit  a  day^ 


62  TRANSLATIONS. 

A  day,  that  stitl  did  nature's  face  disclose : 
This  comfort  from  the  mighty  mischief  rose. 

But  Clymene,  enrag'd  with  grief,  laments, 
And,  as  her  grief  inspires,  her  passion  vents  : 
"Wild  for  her  son,  and  frantic  in  her  woes, 
With  hair  dishevell'd,  round  the  world  she  goes, 
To  seek  where'er  his  body  might  be  cast ; 
Till,  on  the  borders  of  the  Po,  at  last 
The  name  inscrib'd  on  the  new  tomb  appears : 
The  dear,  dear  name  she  bathes  in  flowing  tears, 
Hangs  o'er  the  tomb,  unable  to  depart. 
And  hugs  the  marble  to  her  throbbing  heart. 

Her  daughters  too  lament,  and  sigh,  and  mourn, 
(A  fruitless  tribute  to  their  brother's  urn,) 
And  beat  their  naked  bosoms,  and  complain. 
And  call  aloud  for  Phaeton  in  vain ; 
All  the  long  night  their  mournful  watch  they  keep, 
And  all  the  day  stand  round  the  tomb,  and  weep. 

Four  times,  revolving,  the  full  moon  return'd ; 
So  long  the  mother  and  the  daughters  mourn'd : 
When  now  the  eldest,  Phaethusa,  strove 
To  rest  her  weary  limbs,  but  could  not  move ; 
Lampetia  would  have  help'd  her,  but  she  found 
Herself  withheld,  and  rooted  to  the  ground  : 
A  third  in  wild  affliction,  as  she  grieves, 
Would  rend  her  hair,  but  fills  her  hand  with  leaves , 
One  sees  her  thighs  transform'd,  another  views 
Her  arms  shot  out,  and  branching  into  boughs. 
And  now  their  legs,  and  breasts,  and  bodies  stood 
Crusted  with  bark,  and  hard'ning  into  wood  ; 
But  still  above  were  female  heads  display'd. 
And  mouths,  that  calPd  the  mother  to  their  aid. 


63 


What  could,  alas  !  the  weeping  mother  do  ? 
From  this  to  that  with  eager  haste  she  flew, 
And  kiss'd  her  sprouting  daughters  as  they  grew. 
She  tears  the  bark  that  to  each  body  cleaves, 
And  from  their  verdant  fingers  strips  the  leaves  : 
The  blood  came  trickling,  where  she  tore  away 
The  leaves  and  bark :  the  maids  were  heard  to  say, 
''  Forbear,  mistaken  parent,  oh  !  forbear  ; 
A  wounded  daughter  in  each  tree  you  tear  ; 
Farewell  for  ever."     Here  the  bark  increas'd, 
Clos'd  on  their  faces,  and  their  words  suppress'd. 

The  new-made  trees  in  tears  of  amber  run, 
Which,  harden 'd  into  value  by  the  sun, 
Distil  for  ever  on  the  streams  below  : 
The  limpid  streams  their  radiant  treasures  show, 
Mixt  in  the  sand ;  whence  the  rich  drops  convey'd 
Shine  in  the  dress  of  the  bright  Latian  maid. 

THE  TEANSrOEMATION  01'  CTCNUS  INTO  A  SWAN. 

Cycnus  beheld  the  nymphs  transform'd,  ally'd 
To  their  dead  brother  on  the  mortal  side, 
In  friendship  and  affection  nearer  bound ; 
He  left  the  cities  and  the  realms  he  own'd, 
Through  pathless  fields  and  lonely  shores  to  range, 
And  woods,  made  thicker  by  the  sisters'  change. 
Whilst  here,  within  the  dismal  gloom,  alone, 
The  melancholy  monarch  made  his  moan, 
His  voice  was  lessen'd,  as  he  try'd  to  speak, 
And  issu'd  through  a  long  extended  neck ; 
His  hair  transforms  to  down,  his  fingers  meet 
In  skinny  films,  and  shape  his  oary  feet ; 


64 


TRANSLATIONS. 


From  both  his  sides  the  wings  and  feathers  break ; 
And  from  his  mouth  proceeds  a  blunted  beak : 
All  C jcnus  now  into  a  swan  was  turn'd, 
Who,  still  rememb'ring  how  his  kinsman  burn'd, 
To  solitary  pools  and  lakes  retires, 
And  loves  the  waters  as  oppos'd  to  fires. 

Meanwhile  Apollo  in  a  gloomy  shade 
(The  native  lustre  of  his  brows  decay'd) 
Indulging  sorrow,  sickens  at  the  sight 
Of  his  own  sun-shine,  and  abhors  the  light : 
The  hidden  griefs,  that  in  his  bosom  rise, 
Sadden  his  looks,  and  overcast  his  eyes. 
As  when  some  dusky  orb  obstructs  his  ray, 
And  sullies,  in  a  dim  eclipse,  the  day. 
»      Now  secretly  with  inward  griefs  he  pin'd, 
Now  warm  resentments  to  his  grief  he  join'd, 
And  now  renounc'd  his  office  to  mankind. 
"  E'er  since  the  birth  of  time,"  said  he,  "  I've  borne 
A  long  ungrateful  toil  without  return ; 
Let  now  some  other  manage,  if  he  dare, 
The  fiery  steeds,  and  mount  the  burning  car ; 
Or,  if  none  else,  let  Jove  his  fortune  try, 
And  learn  to  lay  his  murd'ring  thunder  by; 
Then  will  he  own,  perhaps,  but  own  too  late. 
My  son  deserv'd  not  so  severe  a  fate." 

The  gods  stand  round  him,  as  he  mourns,  and  pray 
He  would  resume  the  conduct  of  the  day, 
Nor  let  the  world  be  lost  in  endless  night: 
Jove  too  himself,  descending  from  his  height. 
Excuses  what  had  happen'd,  and  entreats. 
Majestically  mixing  prayers  and  threats. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  65 

Prevail'd  upon,  at  length,  again  he  took 
The  harness'd  steeds,  that  still  with  horror  shook, 
And  plies  'em  with  the  lash,  and  whips  'em  on, 
And,  as  he  whips,  upbraids  'em  with  his  son. 


THE  STOEY  OF    CALISTO. 

The  day  was  settled  in  its  course ;  and  Jove 
Walk'd  the  wide  circuit  of  the  heavens  above. 
To  search  if  any  cracks  or  flaws  were  made ; 
But  all  was  safe :  the  earth  he  then  survey'd, 
And  cast  an  eye  on  every  different  coast. 
And  every  land ;  but  on  Arcadia  most. 
Her  fields  he  cloth' d,  and  chear'd  her  blasted  face 
With  running  fountains,  and  with  springing  grass. 
No  tracks  of  heaven's  destructive  fire  remain, 
The  fields  and  woods  revive,  and  nature  smiles  again 

But  as  the  god  walk'd  to  and  fro  the  earth. 
And  rais'd  the  plants,  and  gave  the  spring  its  birth, 
By  chance  a  fair  Arcadian  nymph  he  view'd, 
And  felt  the  lovely  charmer  in  his  blood. 
The  nymph  nor  spun,  nor  dress'd  with  artful  pride ; 
Her  vest  was  gather'd  up,  her  hair  was  ty'd ; 
Now  in  her  hand  a  slender  spear  she  bore, 
Now  a  light  quiver  on  her  shoulders  wore ; 
To  chaste  Diana  from  her  youth  inclin'd 
The  sprightly  warriors  of  the  wood  she  join'd. 
Diana  too  the  gentle  huntress  lov'd, 
Nor  was  there  one  of  all  the  nymphs  that  rov'd 
O'er  Maenalus,  amid  the  maiden  throng, 
More  favour'd  once;  but  fav)ur  lasts  not  long. 


G6  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  sun  now  shone  in  all  its  strength,  and  drove 
The  heated  virgin  panting  to  a  grove  ; 
The  grove  around  a  grateful  shadow  cast : 
She  dropt  her  arrows,  and  her  bow  unbrac'd ; 
She  flung  herself  on  the  cool  grassy  bed  ; 
And  on  the  painted  quiver  rais'd  her  head. 
Jove  saw  the  charming  huntress  unprepar'd 
Stretch'd  on  the  verdant  turf,  without  a  guard. 
"  Here  I  am  safe,"  he  cries,  "  from  Juno's  eye; 
Or  should  my  jealous  queen  the  theft  descry. 
Yet  would  I  venture  on  a  theft  like  this. 
And  stand  her  rage  for  such,  for  such  a  bliss  !  " 
Diana's  shape  and  habit  strait  he  took, 
Soften'd  his  brows,  and  smooth'd  his  awful  look, 
And  mildly  in  a  female  accent  spoke. 
"  How  fares  my  girl  ?     How  went  the  morning  chase  ?  " 
To  whom  the  virgin,  starting  from  the  grass, 
"  All  hail,  bright  deity,  whom  I  prefer 
To  Jove  himself,  tho'  Jove  himself  were  here." 
The  god  was  nearer  than  she  thought,  and  heard, 
Well-pleas'd,  himself  before  himself  preferr'd. 

He  then  salutes  her  with  a  warm  embrace ; 
And,  e'er  she  half  had  told  the  morning  chase, 
With  love  inflam'd,  and  eager  on  his  bliss, 
Smother'd  her  words,  and  stopp'd  her  with  a  kiss ; 
His  kisses  with  unwonted  ardour  glow'd, 
Nor  could  Diana's  shape  conceal  the  god. 
The  virgin  did  whate'er  a  virgin  could  ; 
(Sure  Juno  must  have  pardon 'd,  had  she  view'd) 
With  all  her  might  against  his  force  she  strove  ; 
But  how  can  mortal  maids  contend  with  Jove  I 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  67 

Possest  at  length  of  what  his  heart  desir'd, 
Back  to  his  heavens  th'  exulting  god  retir'd. 
The  lovely  huntress,  rising  from  the  grass, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  with  a  blushing  face, 
By  shame  confounded,  and  by  fear  dismay'd, 
Flew  from  the  covert  of  the  guilty  shade. 
And  almost,  in  the  tumult  of  her  mind. 
Left  her  forgotten  bow  and  shafts  behind. 

But  now  Diana,  with  a  sprightly  train 
Of  quiver'd  virgins,  bounding  o  er  the  plain, 
Call'd  to  the  nymph  ;  the  nymph  began  to  fear 
A  second  fraud,  a  Jove  disguis'd  in  her ; 
But,  when  she  saw  the  sister  nymphs,  suppress'd 
Her  rising  fears,  and  mingled  with  the  rest. 

How  in  the  look  does  conscious  guilt  appear  ! 
Slowly  she  mov'd,  and  loitered  in  the  rear ; 
Nor  lightly  tripp'd,  nor  by  the  goddess  ran, 
As  once  she  us'd,  the  foremost  of  the  train. 
Her  looks  were  flushed,  and  sullen  was  her  mien, 
That  sure  the  virgin  goddess  (had  she  been 
Aught  but  a  virgin)  must  the  guilt  have  seen. 
'Tis  said  the  nymphs  saw  all,  and  guess'd  aright  * 
And  now  the  moon  had  nine  times  lost  her  light, 
When  Dian,  fainting  in  the  mid-day  beams, 
Found  a  cool  covert,  and  refreshing  streams 
That  in  soft  murmurs  through  the  forest  flow'd, 
And  a  smooth  bed  of  shining  gravel  show'd. 

A  covert  so  obscure,  and  streams  so  clear, 
Tlie  goddess  prais'd  :  "  And  now  no  spies  are  near, 
Let's  strip,  my  gentle  maids,  and  wash,"  she  cries. 
Ploas'd  with  the  motion,  every  maid  complies ; 


68  TRANSLATIONS. 

Only  the  blushing  huntress  stood  confus'd, 
And  form'd  delays,  and  her  delays  excus'd  ; 
In  vain  excus'd  :  her  fellows  round  her  press'd, 
And  the  reluctant  nymph  by  force  undress'd. 
The  naked  huntress  all  her  shame  reveal'd. 
In  vain  her  hands  the  pregnant  womb  conceal'd  ; 
"  Begone  ! "  the  goddess  cries  with  stern  disdain, 
"  Begone  !  nor  dare  the  hallow'd  stream  to  stain : " 
She  fled,  for  ever  banish'd  from  the  train. 

This  Juno  heard,  who  long  had  watch'd  her  time 
To  punish  *the  detested  rival's  crime  ; 
The  time  was  come  :  for,  to  enrage  her  more, 
A  lovely  boy  the  teeming  rival  bore. 

The  goddess  cast  a  furious  look,  and  cry'd, 
"  It  is  enough  !  I'm  fully  satisfy'd  ! 
This  boy  shall  stand  a  living  mark,  to  prove 
My  husband's  baseness,  and  the  strumpet's  love  : 
But  vengeance  shall  awake  :  those  guilty  charms, 
That  drew  the  Thunderer  from  Juno's  arms, 
No  longer  shall  their  wonted  force  retain, 
Nor  please  the  god,  nor  make  the  mortal  vain. 

This  said,  her  hand  within  her  hair  she  wound, 
Swung  her  to  earth,  and  dragg'd  her  on  the  ground, 
The  prostrate  wretch  lifts  up  her  arms  in  prayer ; 
Her  arms  grow  shaggy,  and  deform'd  w^ith  hair, 
Her  nails  are  sharpen'd  into  pointed  claws, 
Her  hands  bear  half  her  weight,  and  turn  to  paws ; 
*         Her  lips,  that  once  could  tempt  a  god,  begin 
To  grow  distorted  in  an  ugly  grin. 
And,  lest  the  supplicating  brute  might  reach 
The  ears  of  Jove,  she  was  depriv'd  of  speech : 


m 


Her  surly  voice  thro'  a  hoarse  passage  came 
In  savage  sounds  :  her  mind  was  still  the  same. 
The  furry  monster  fix'd  her  eyes  above, 
And  heav'd  her  new  unwieldy  paws  to  Jove, 
And  begg'd  his  aid  with  inward  groans  ;  and  tho' 
She  could  not  call  him  false,  she  thought  him  so. 

How  did  she  fear  to  lodge  in  woods  alone, 
And  haunt  the  fields  and  meadows  once  her  own ! 
How  often  would  the  deep-mouth'd  dogs  pursue. 
Whilst  from  her  hounds  the  frighted  huntress  flew ! 
How  did  she  fear  her  fellow-brutes,  and  shun 
The  shaggy  bear,  tho'  now  herself  was  one  ! 
How  from  the  sight  of  rugged  wolves  retire. 
Although  the  grim  Lycaon  was  her  sire  ! 

But  now  her  son  had  fifteen  summers  told. 
Fierce  at  the  chase,  and  in  the  forest  bold  ; 
When,  as  he  beat  the  woods  in  quest  of  prey, 
He  chanc'd  to  rouse  his  -mother  where  she  lay. 
She  knew  her  son,  and  kept  him  in  her  sight, 
And  fondly  gaz'd  :  the  boy  was  in  a  fright, 
And  aim'd  a  pointed  arrow  at  her  breast, 
And  would  have  slain  his  mother  in  the  beast ; 
But  Jove  forbad,  and  snatch 'd  'em  through  the  air 
In  whirlwinds  up  to  heaven,  and  fix'd  'em  there  : 
Where  the  new  constellations  nightly  rise, 
And  add  a  lustre  to  the  northern  skies. 

When  Juno  saw  the  rival  in  her  height. 
Spangled  with  stars,  and  circled  round  with  light. 
She  sought  old  Ocean  in  his  deep  abodes. 
And  Tethys ;  both  revered  among  the  gods. 
They  ask  what  brings  her  there  :  "  Ne'er  ask,"  says  she, 
*  What  brings  me  here,  heaven  is  no  place  for  me. 


70  TRANSLATIONS. 

You'll  see,  when  night  has  cover'd  all  things  o'er, 
Jove's  starry  bastard  and  triumphant  whore 
Usurp  the  heavens  ;  you'll  see  'em  proudly  roll 
In  their  new  orbs,  and  brighten  all  the  pole. 
And  who  shall  now  on  Juno's  altars  wait, 
When  those  she  hates  grow  greater  by  her  hate  ? 
I  on  the  nymph  a  brutal  form  impress'd, 
Jove  to  a  goddess  has  transform'd  the  beast ; 
This,  this  was  all  my  weak  revenge  could  do  : 
But  let  the  god  his  chaste  amours  pursue, 
And,  as  he  acted  after  lo's  rape. 
Restore  th'  adult'ress  to  her  former  shape ; 
Then  may  he  cast  his  Juno  off,  and  lead 
The  great  Lycaon's  offspring  to  his  bed. 
But  you,  ye  venerable  powers,  be  kind, 
And,  if  my  wrongs  a  due  resentment  find, 
Receive  not  in  your  waves  their  setting  beams. 
Nor  let  the  glaring  strumpet  taint  your  streams." 

The  goddess  ended,  and  her  wish  was  given. 
Back  she  return'd  in  triumph  up  to  heaven ; 
Her  gaudy  peacocks  drew  her  through  the  skies, 
Their  tails  were  spotted  with  a  thousand  eyes  ; 
The  eyes  of  Argus  on  their  tails  were  rang'd. 
At  the  same  time  the  raven's  colour  chang'd. 

THE  STOKY  OF  COEONIS,  AND  BIRTH  OF  ^SCULAl'lUS. 

The  raven  once  in  snowy  plumes  was  drest. 
White  as  the  whitest  dove's  unsully'd  breast. 
Fair  as  the  guardian  of  the  Capitol, 
Soft  as  the  swan ;  a  large  and  lovply  fowl ; 
His  tongue,  his  prating  tongue  had  chang'd  liini  quite 
To  sooty  blackness  from  the  purest  white. 


ovid's    metamorpho&es.  71 

The  story  of  his  change  shall  here  be  told 
In  Thessaly  there  liv'd  a  nymph  of  old, 
Coronis  nam'd ;  a  peerless  maid  she  shin'd, 
Confest  the  fairest  of  the  fairer  kind. 
Apollo  lov'd  her,  till  her  guilt  he  knew, 
While  true  she  was,  or  whilst  he  thought  her  t-uo. 
But  his  own  bird  the  raven  chanc'd  to  find 
The  false  one  with  a  secret  rival  join'd. 
Coronis  begg'd  him  to  suppress  the  tale. 
But  could  not  with  repeated  prayers  prevail. 
His  milk-white  pinions  to  the  god  he  ply'd ; 
The  busy  daw  flew  with  him,  side  by  side. 
And  by  a  thousand  teasing  questipns  drew 
Th'  important  secret  from  him  as  they  flew. 
The  daw  gave  honest  counsel,  tho'  despis'd, 
And,  tedious  in  her  tattle,  thus  advis'd  : 

"  Stay,  silly  bird,  th'  ill-natur'd  task  refuse, 
Nor  be  the  bearer  of  unwelcome  news.  ] 

Be  warn'd  by  my  example  :  you  discern 
What  now  I  am,  and  what  I  was  shall  learn. 
My  foolish  honesty  was  all  my  crime ; 
Then  hear  my  story.     Once  upon  a  time, 
The  two-shap'd  Ericthonius  had  his  birth 
(Without  a  mother)  from  the  teeming  earth  ; 
Minerva  nurs'd  him,  and  the  infant  laid 
Within  a  chest  of  twining  osiers  made. 
The  daughters  of  King  Cecrops  undertook 
To  guard  the  chest,  commanded  not  to  look 
On  what  was  hid  within.     I  stood  to  see 
The  charge  obey'd,  perch'd  on  a  neighb'ring  tree. 
The  sisters  Pandrosos  and  Ilerse  keep 
The  strict  command ;  Aglauros  needs  would  peep, 


72  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  saw  the  monstrous  infant  in  a  fright, 
And  call'd  her  sisters  to  the  hideous  sight : 
A  boy's  soft  shape  did  to  the  waist  prevail, 
But  the  boy  ended  in  a  dragon's  tail. 
I  told  the  stern  Minerva  all  that  pass'd, 
But  for  my  pains,  discarded  and  disgrac'd, 
The  frowning  goddess  drove  me  from  her  sight, 
And  for  her  favorite  chose  the  bird  of  night. 
Be  then  no  tell-tale ;  for  I  think  my  wrong 
Enough  to  teach  a  bird  to  hold  her  tongue. 

"  But  you,  perhaps,  may  think  I  was  remov'd, 
As  never  by  the  heavenly  maid  belov'd : 
But  I  was  lov'd ;  ask  Pallas  if  I  lie  ; 
Tho'  Pallas  hate  me  now,  she  won't  deny : 
For  I,  whom  in  a  feather'd  shape  you  view, 
Was  once  a  maid,  (by  heaven  the  story's  true) 
A  blooming  maid,  and  a  king's  daughter  too. 
A  crowd  of  lovers  own'd  my  beauty's  charms ; 
My  beauty  was  the  cause  of  all  my  harms; 
Neptune,  as  on  his  shores  I  went  to  rove^ 
Observ'd  me  in  my  walks,  and  fell  in  love. 
He  made  his  courtship,  he  confess'd  his  pain. 
And  offered  force  when  all  his  arts  were  vain ; 
Swift  he  pursu'd :  I  ran  along  the  strand, 
'Till,  spent  and  weary'd  on  the  sinking  sand, 
I  shriek'd  aloud,  with  cries  I  fill'd  the  air 
To  gods  and  men ;  nor  god  nor  man  was  there : 
A  virgin  goddess  heard  a  virgin's  prayer. 
For,  as  my  arms  I  lifted  to  the  skies, 
I  saw  black  feathers  from  my  fingers  rise ; 
I  strove  to  fling  my  garment  on  the  ground ; 
My  garment  turn'd  to  plumes,  and  girt  me  roimd : 


73 


My  hands  to  beat  my  naked  bosom  try  ; 
Nor  naked  bosom  now  nor  hands  had  I. 
Lightly  I  tript,  nor  weary  as  before 
Sunk  in  the  sand,  but  skimm'd  along  the  shore ; 
Till,  rising  on  my  wings,  I  was  preferr'd 
To  be  the  chaste  Minerva's  virgin  bird : 
Preferr'd  in  vain  !  I  now  am  in  disgrace  : 
Nyctimene,  the  owl,  enjoys  my  place, 

"  On  her  incestuous  life  I  need  not  dwell, 
(In  Lesbos  still  the  horrid  tale  they  tell) 
And  of  her  dire  amours  you  must  have  heard, 
For  which  she  now  does  penance  in  a  bird, 
That,  conscious  of  her  shame,  avoids  the  light, 
And /loves  the  gloomy  cov'ring  of  the  night ; 
The  birds,  where'er  she  flutters,  scare  away 
The  hooting  wretch,  and  drive  her  from  the  day." 

The  raven,  iirg'd  by  such  impertinence. 
Grew  passionate,  it  seems,  and  took  offence. 
And  curst  the  harmless  daw ;  the  daw  withdrew : 
The  raven  to  her  injur'd  patron  flew. 
And  found  him  out,  and  told  the  fatal  truth 
Of  false  Coronis  and,  the  favour'd  youth. 

The  god  was  wroth  ;  the  colour  left  his  look, 
The  wreath  his  head,  the  harp  his  hand  forsook  : 
His  silver  bow  and  feather'd  shafts  he  took. 
And  lodg'd  an  arrow  in  the  tender  breast, 
That  had  so  often  to  his  own  been  prest. 
Down  fell  the  wounded  nymph,  and  sadly  groan'd, 
And  pull'd  his  arrow  reeking  from  the  wound ; 
And  welt'ring  in  her  blood,  thus  faintly  cry'd, 
"  Ah  cruel  god  !  tho'  I  have  justly  dy'd, 

VOL.  I. — 4 


74  TRANSLATIONS. 

What  has,  alas !  my  unborn  infant  done, 
That  he  should  fall,  and  two  expire  in  one  ?  " 
This  said,  in  agonies  she  fetch'd  her  breath. 

The  god  dissolves  in  pity  at  her  death ; 
He  hates  the  bird  that  made  her  falsehood  known, 
And  hates  himself  for  what  himself  had  done  ; 
The  feather'd  shaft,  that  sent  her  to  the  fates, 
And  his  own  hand,  that  sent  the  shaft,  he  hates. 
Fain  would  he  heal  the  wound,  and  ease  her  pain, 
And  tries  the  compass  of  his  art  in  vain. 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  lovely  nymph  expire, 
The  pile  made  ready,  and  the  kindling  fire, 
With  sighs  and  groans  her  obsequies  he  kept, 
And,  if  a  god  could  weep,  the  god  had  wept. 
Her  corpse  he  kiss'd,  and  heavenly  incense  brought, 
And  solemniz'd  the  death  himself  had  wrought. 

But,  lest  his  ofi"spring. should  her  fate  partake, 
Spite  of  th'  immortal  mixture  in  his  make. 
He  ript  her  womb,  and  set  the  child  at  large, 
And  gave  him  to  the  centaur  Chiron's  charge  : 
Then  in  his  fury  black'd  the  raven  o'er, 
And  bid  him  prate  in  his  white  plumes  no  more. 

OCYREIIOE   TRANSFORMED    TO   A  MARE. 

Old  Chiron  took  the  babe  with  secret  joy, 
Proud  of  the  charge  of  the  celestial  boy. 
His  daughter  too,  whom  on  the  sandy  shore 
The  nymph  Chariclo  to  the  centaur  bore, 
With  hair  dishevel'd  on  her  shoulders  came 
To  see  the  child,  Ocyrrhoe  was  her  name  ; 
She  knew  her  father's  arts,  and  could  reheaTse 
The  depths  of  prophecy  in  sounding  verse. 


I 


OVId's      METAMORniOSEB.  75 

Once,  as  the  sacred  infant  she  survej'd, 
The  god  was  kindled  in  the  raving  maid, 
And  thus  she  utter'd  her  prophetic  tale  ; 
"  Hail,  great  physician  of  the  world,  all  hail ; 
Hail,  mighty  infant,  who  in  years  to  come 
Shalt  heal  the  nations  and  defraud  the  tomb ; 
Swift  be  thy  growth  !  thy  triumphs  unconfin'd  ! 
Make  kingdoms  thicker,  and  increase  mankind. 
Thy  daring  art  shall  animate  the  dead, 
And  draw  the  thunder  on  thy  guilty  head  : 
Then  shalt  thou  die  ;  but  from  the  dark  abode 
Eise  up  victorious,  and  be  twice  a  god. 
And  thou,  my  sire,  not  destin'd  by  thy  birth 
To  turn  to  dust,  and  mix  with  common  earth. 
How  wilt  thou  toss,  and  rave,  and  long  to  die, 
And  quit  thy  claim  to  immortality  ; 
When  thou  shalt  feel,  enrag'd  with  inward  pains, 
The  Hydra's  venom  rankling  in  thy  veins  ? 
The  gods,  in  pity,  shall  contract  thy  date. 
And  give  thee  over  to  the  power  of  Fate." 

Thus,  entering  into  destiny,  the  maid 
The  secrets  of  offended  Jove  betray'd : 
More  had  she  still  to  say ;  but  now  appears 
Oppress'd  with  sobs  and  sighs,  and  drown'd  in  tears. 

"  My  voice,"  says  she,  "  is  gone,  my  language  fails 
Through  every  limb  my  kindred  shape  prevails  : 
Why  did  the  god  this  fatal  gift  impart. 
And  with  prophetic  raptures  swell  my  heart ! 
What  new  desires  are  these  ?  I  long  to  pace 
O'er  flowery  meadows,  and  to  feed  on  grass  ; 
I  hasten  to  a  brute,  a  maid  no  more ; 
But  why,  alas  I  am  I  transform'd  all  o'er  ? 


TRANSLATIONS. 

My  sire  does  half  a  human  shape  retain, 
And  in  his  upper  parts  preserves  the  man." 

Her  tongue  no  more  distinct  complaints  affords, 
But  in  shrill  accents  and  mis-shapen  words 
Pours  forth  such  hideous  wailings,  as  declare 
The  human  form  confounded  in  the  mare : 
'Till  by  degrees  accomplish'd  in  the  beast. 
She  neigh'd  outright,  and  all  the  steed  exprest. 
Her  stooping  body  on  her  hands  is  borne, 
Her  hands  are  turn'd  to  hoofs,  and  shod  in  horn  ; 
Her  yellow  tresses  ruffle  in  a  mane. 
And  in  a  flowing  tail  she  frisks  her  train. 
The  mare  was  finish'd  in  her  voice  and  look. 
And  a  new  name  from  the  new  figure  took. 

THE  TEANSFORMATION  OF  BATTUS  TO  A  TOUCH-STONE. 

Sore  wept  the  centaur,  and  to  Phoebus  pray'd ; 
But  how  could  Phoebus  give  the  centaur  aid  ? 
Degraded  of  his  power  by  angry  Jove, 
In  Elis  then  a  herd  of  beeves  he  drove  ; 
And  wielded  in  his  hand  a  staff  of  oak. 
And  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  the  shepherd's  cloak ; 
On  seven  compacted  reeds  he  us'd  to  play, 
And  on  his  rural  pipe  to  waste  the  day. 

As  once,  attentive  to  his  pipe,  he  play'd, 
The  crafty  Hermes  from  the  god  convey'd 
A  drove,  that  sep'rate  from  their  fellows  stray'd. 
The  theft  an  old  insidious  peasant  view'd, 
(They  called  him  Battus  in  the  neighbourhood) 
Hir'd  by  a  wealthy  Pylian  prince  to  feed 
His  favourite  mares,  and  watch  the  generous  breed. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  77 

The  thievish  god  suspected  him,  and  took 
The  hind  aside,  and  thus  in  whispers  spoke : 
"  Discover  not  the  theft,  whoe'er  thou  be, 
Amd  take  that  milk-white  heifer  for  thy  fee  "• 
"  Go,  stranger,"  cries  the  clown,  "  securely  on, 
That  stone  shall  sooner  tell ;  "  and  show'd  a  stone. 
The  god  withdrew,  but  straight  return'd  again, 
In  speech  and  habit  like  a  country  swain ; 
And  cries  out,  "  Neighbour,  hast  thou  seen  a  stray 
Of  bullocks  and  of  heifers  pass  this  way  ? 
In  the  recovery  of  my  cattle  join, 
A  bullock  and  a  heifer  shall  be  thine." 
The  peasant  quick  replies,  *'  You'll  find  'em  there 
In  yon  dark  vale  :  "  and  in  the  vale  they  were. 
The  double  bribe  had  his  false  heart  beguil'd  : 
The  god,  successful  in  the  trial,  smil'd ; 
"  And  dost  thou  thus  betray  myself  to  me  ? 
Me  to  myself  dost  thou  betray  ?  "  says  he  : 
Then  to  a  touch-stone  turns  the  faithless  spy, 
And  in  his  name  records  his  infamy. 

THE  STORY  OF  AGLAUEOS,  TEANSFOEMED  INTO  A  STATUE. 

This  done,  the  god  flew  up  on  high,  and  pass'd 
O'er  lofty  Athens,  by  Minerva  grac'd, 
And  wide  Munichia,  whilst  his  eyes  survey 
All  the  vast  region  that  beneath  him  lay. 

'Twas  now  the  feast,  when"  each  Athenian  maid 
Her  yearly  homage  to  Minerva  paid ; 
In  canisters,  with  garlands  cover'd  o'er, 
High  on  their  heads  their  mystic  gifts  they  bore ; 
And  now,  returning  in  a  solemn  train. 
The  trDop  of  shining  virgins  fiU'd  the  plain. 


78  TRANSLATIONS. 

The  god  well-pleas'd  beheld  the  pompous  show, 
And  saw  the  bright  procession  pass  below ; 
Then  veer'd  about,  and  took  a  wheeling  flight, 
And  hover'd  o'er  them :  as  the  spreading  kite, 
That  smells  the  slaughter'd  victim  from  on  high, 
Flies  at  a  distance  if  the  priests  are  nigh. 
And  sails  around,  and  keeps  it  in  her  eye ; 
So  kept  the  god  the  virgin  choir  in  view. 
And  in  slow  winding  circles  round  them  flew 

As  Lucifer  excels  the  meanest  star, 
Or,  as  the  full-orb'd  Phcebe,  Lucifer ; 
So  much  did  Herse  all  the  rest  outvie. 
And  gave  a  grace  to  the  solemnity, 
Hermes  was  fir'd,  as  in  the  clouds  he  hung: 
So  the  cold  bullet,  that  with  fury  slung 
From  Balearic  engines  mounts  on  high, 
Glows  in  the  whirl,  and  burns  along  the  sky. 
At  length  he  pitch'd  upon  the  ground,  and  show'd 
The  form  divine,  the  features  of  a  god. 
He  knew  their  virtue  o'er  a  female  heart. 
And  yet  he  strives  to  better  them  by  art. 
He  hangs  his  mantle  loose,  and  sets  to  show 
The  golden  edging  on  the  seam  below ; 
Adjusts  his  flowing  curls,  and  in  his  hand 
Waves,  with  an  air,  the  sleep-procuring  wand  ; 
The  glittering  sandals  to  his  feet  applies. 
And  to  each  heel  the  well- trimmed  pinion  ties. 

His  ornaments  with  nicest  art  display'd, 
He  seeks  th'  apartment  of  the  royal  maid. 
The  roof  was  all  with  polish'd  ivory  lin'd, 
That,  richly  mix'd,  in  clouds  of  tortoise  shin'd. 


OVID's     METAMOPwPIIOSES.  79 

Three  rooms,  contiguous,  in  a  range  were  plac'd, 

The  midmost  by  the  beauteous  Ilerse  grac'd  ; 

Her  virgin  sisters  lodg'd  on  either  side.  ^ 

Aglauros  first  th'  approaching  god  descry'd, 

And  as  he  cross'd  her  chamber,  ask'd  his  name, 

And  what  his  business  was,  and  whence  he  came. 

"  I  come,"  reply'd  the  god,  "  from  heaven,  to  woo 

Your  sister,  and  to  make  an  aunt  of  you ; 

I  am  the  son  and  messenger  of  Jove, 

My  name  is  Mercury,  my  business  love ; 

Do  you,  kind  damsel,  take  a  lover's  part,  \ 

And  gain  admittance  to  your  sister's  heart." 

She  star'd  him  in  the  face  with  looks  amaz'd. 
As  when  she  on  Minerva's  secret  gaz'd, 
And  asks  a  mighty  treasure  for  her  hire. 
And,  till  he  brings  it,  makes  the  god  retire. 
Minerva  griev'd  to  see  the  nymph  succeed ; 
And  now  rememb'ring  the  late  impious  deed, 
When,  disobedient  to  her  strict  command, 
She  touch'd  the  chest  with  an  unhallow'd  hand  ; 
In  big-swoln  sighs  her  inward  rage  express'd, 
That  heav'd  the  rising  ^gis  on  her  breast ; 
Then  sought  out  Envy  in  her  dark  abode, 
Defil'd  with  ropy  gore  and  clots  of  blood  : 
Shut  from  the  winds,  and  from  the  wholesome  skies, 
In  a  deep  vale  the  gloomy  dungeon  lies. 
Dismal  and  cold,  where  not  a  beam  of  light 
Invades  the  winter,  or  disturbs  the  night. 

Directly  to  the  cave  her  course  she  steer'd  ; 
Against  the  gates  her  martial  lance  she  rear'd ; 
The  gates  flew  open,  and  the  fiend  appear'd. 


8C  TRANSLATIONS. 

A  pois'nous  morsel  in  her  teeth  she  chew'd, 

And  gorg'd  the  flesh  of  vipers  for  her  food. 

Minerva  loathing,  turn'd  away  her  eye  : 

The  hideous  monster,  rising  heavily, 

Came  stalking  forward  with  a  sullen  pace, 

And  left  her  mangled  offals  on  the  place. 

Soon  as  she  saw  the  goddess  gay  and  bright, 

She  fetch'd  a  groan  at  such  a  cheerful  sight. 

Livid  and  meagre  were  her  looks,  her  eye 

In  foul  distorted  glances  turn'd  awry  ; 

A  hoard  of  gall  her  inward  parts  possess'd, 

And  spread  a  greenness  o'er  her  canker'd  breast ; 

Her  teeth  were  brown  with  rust ;  and  from  her  tongu-e, 

In  dangling  drops,  the  stringy  poison  hung. 

She  never  smiles  but  when  the  wretched  weep, 

Nor  lulls  her  malice  with  a  moment's  sleep, 

Kestless  in  spite  :  while  watchful  to  destroy, 

She  pines  and  sickens  at  another's  joy  ; 

Foe  to  herself,  distressing  and  distrest, 

She  bears  her  own  tormentor  in  her  breast. 

The  goddess  gave  (for  she  abhorr'd  her  sight) 

A  short  command  :  "  To  Athens  speed  tliy  flight ; 

On  curst  Aglauros  try  thy  utmost  art, 

And  fix  thy  rankest  venoms  in  her  heart." 

This  said,  her  spear  she  push'd  against  the  ground, 

And  mounting  from  it  with  an  active  bound. 

Flew  off  to  heav'n  :  the  hag  with  eyes  a^^kew 

Look'd  up,  and  mutter'd  curses  as  she  flow  ; 

For  sore  she  fretted,  and  began  to  grieve 

At  the  success  which  she  herself  must  give. 

Then  takes  her  staff,  hung  round  with  wreaths  of  thorn, 

And  sails  along  in  a  black  whirlwind  borne, 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  81 

O'er  fields  and  flowery  meadows  :  where  she  steers 
Her  baneful  course,  a  mighty  blast  appears, 
Mildews  and  blights  ;  the  meadows  are  defac'd, 
The  fields,  the  flowers,  and  the  whole  year  laid  waste . 
On  mortals  next,  and  peopled  towns  she  falls, 
And  breathes  a  burning  plague  among  their  walls. 

When  Athens  she  beheld,  for  arts  renown'd, 
"With  peace  rn^de  happy,  and  with  plenty  crown'd, 
Scarce  could  the  hideous  fiend  from  tears  forbear 
To  find  out  nothing  that  deserv'd  a  tear. 
Th'  apartment  now  she  entered,  where  at  rest 
Aglauros  lay,  with  gentle  sleep  opprest. 
To  execute  Minerva's  dire  command. 
She  strok'd  the  virgin  with  her  canker'd  hand. 
Then  prickly  thorns  into  her  breast  convey 'd, 
That  stung  to  madness  the  devoted  maid  : 
Her  subtle  venom  still  improves  the  smart,  ^. 

Frets  in  the  blood,  and  festers  in  the  heart. 

To  make  the  work  more  sure,  a  scene  she  drew, 
And  plac'd  before  the  dreaming  virgin's  view 
Her  sister's  marriage,  and  her  glorious  fate  : 
Th'  imaginary  bride  appears  in  state  ; 
The  bridegroom  with  unwonted  beauty  glows, 
For  Envy  magnifies  whate'er  she  shows. 

Full  of  the  dream,  Aglauros  pin'd  away 
In  tears  all  night,  in  darkness  all  the  day-; 
Consum'd  like  ice,  that  just  begins  to  run. 
When  feebly  smitten  by  the  distant  sun  ; 
Or  like  unwholesome  weeds,  that,  set  on  fire, 
Are  slowly  wasted,  and  in  smoke  expire. 
Given  up  to  Envy,  (for  in  ev'ry  thought 
The  thorns,  th  >  venom,  and  the  vision  wrought) 

VOL.   I. — 4* 


82  TRANSLATIONS. 

Oft  did  she  call  on  death,  as  oft  decreed, 
Rather  than  see  her  sister's  wish  succeed, 
To  tell  her  awful  father  what  had  pass'd : 
At  length  before  the  door  herself  she  cast ; 
And,  sitting  on  the  ground  with  sullen  pride, 
A  passage  to  the  love-sick  god  deny'd. 
The  god  caress'd,  and  for  admission  pray'd. 
And  sooth'd,  in  softest  words,  th'  envenom'd  maid. 
In  vain  he  sooth'd  ;  "  Begone  !  "  the  maid  replies, 
''  Or  here  I  keep  my  seat,  and  never  rise." 
"  Then  keep  thy  seat  for  ever !  "  cries  the  god, 
And  touch'd  the  door,  wide-opening  to  his  rod. 
Fain  would  she  rise,  and  stop  him,  but  she  found 
Her  trunk  too  heavy  to  forsake  the  ground ; 
Her  joints  are  all  benumb'd,  her  hands  are  pale, 
And  marble  now  appears  in  every  nail. 
As  when  a  cancer  in  the  body  feeds. 
And  gradual  death  from  limb  to  limb  proceeds  ; 
So  does  the  chillness  to  each  vital  part 
Spread  by  degrees,  and  creeps  into  her  heart ; 
'Till  hard'ning  every  where,  and  speechless  grown, 
She  sits  unmov'd,  and  freezes  to  a  stone. 
But  still  her  envious  hue  and  sullen  mien, 
Are  in  the  sedentary  figure  seen. 


EUEOPA'S   KAPE. 

When  now  the  god  his  fury  had  allay'd, 
And  taken  vengeance  of  the  stubborn  maid, 
From  where  the  bright  Athenian  turrets  rise 
He  mounts  aloft,  and  re-ascends  the  skies. 


83 


Jove  saw  him  enter  the  sublime  abodes, 
And,  as  he  mix'd  among  the  crowd  of  gods, 
Beckon'd  him  out,  and  drew  him  from  the  rest 
And  in  soft  whispers  thus  his  will  exprest. 

"  My  trusty  Hermes,  by  whose  ready  aid 
Thy  sire's  commands  are  thro'  the  world  convey'd 
Resume  thy  wings,  exert  their  utmost  force, 
And  to  the  walls  of  Sidon  speed  thy  course ; 
There  find  a  herd  of  heifers  wand'ring  o'er 
The  neighbouring  hill,  and  drive  them  to  the  shore." 

Thus  spoke  the  god,  concealing  his  intent. 
The  trusty  Hermes  on  his  message  went, 
And  found  the  herd  of  heifers  wand'ring  o'er 
A  neighbouring  hill,  and  drove  'em  to  the  shore  ; 
Where  the  king's  daughter,  with  a  lovely  train 
Of  fellow  nymphs,  was  sporting  on  the  plain. 

The  dignity  of  empire  laid  aside, 
(For  love  but  ill  agrees  with  kingly  pride) 
The  ruler  of  the  skies,  the  thundering  god, 
"Who  shakes  the  world's  foundations  with  a  nod, 
Among  a  herd  of  lowing  heifers  ran, 
Frisk'd  in  a  bull,  and  bellow'd  o'er  the  plain. 
Large  rolls  of  fat  about  his  shoulders  clung, 
And  from  his  neck  the  double  dewlap  hung. 
His  skin  was  whiter  than  the  snow  that  lies 
Unsully'd  by  the  breath  of  southern  skies ; 
Small  shining  horns  on  his  curl'd  forehead  stand, 
As  turn'd  and  polish'd  by  the  workman's  hand  ; 
His  eye-balls  roll'd,  not  formidably  bright, 
But  gaz'd  and  languish'd  with  a  gentle  light. 
His  every  look  was  peaceful,  and  exprest 
The  softness  of  the  lover  in  the  beast. 


84  TRANSLATIONS. 

Agenor's  royal  daughter,  as  she  pla3''d 
Among  the  fields,  the  milk-white  bull  survey'd. 
And  view'd  his  spotless  body  with  delig'''t, 
And  at  a  distance  kept  him  in  her  sight. 
At  length  she  pluck'd  the  rising  flowers,  and  fed 
The  gentle  beast,  and  fondly  strok'd  his  head. 
He  stood  well  pleas'd  to  touch  the  charming  fair. 
But  hardly  could  confine  his  pleasure  there. 
And  now  he  wantons  o'er  the  neighbouring  strand, 
Now  rolls  his  body  on  the  yellow  sand ; 
And  now,  perceiving  all  her  fears  decay'd. 
Comes  tossifig  forward  to  the  royal  maid ; 
Gives  her  his  breast  to  stroke,  and  downward  turns 
His  grisly  brow,  and  gently  stoops  his  horns. 
In  flowery  wreaths  the  royal  virgin  drest 
His  bending  horns,  and  kindly  clapt  his  breast. 
'Till  now  grown  wanton,  and  devoid  of  fear, 
Not  knowing  that  she  prest  the  thundercr, 
She  plac'd  herself  upon  his  back,  and  rode 
O'er  fields  and  meadows,  seated  on  the  god, 

He  gently  march'd  along,  and  by  degrees 
Left  the  dry  meadow,  and  approach'd  the  seas , 
Where  now  he  dips  his  hoofs  and  wets  his  thighs, 
Now  plunges  in,  and  carries  off  the  prize. 
The  frighted  nymph  looks  backward  on  the  shore, 
And  hears  the  tumbling  billows  round  her  roar ; 
But  still  she  holds  him  fast :  one  hand  is  borne 
Upon  his  back,  the  other  grasps  a  horn : 
Her  train  of  ruffling  garments  flies  behind,  ' 
Swells  in  the  air,  and  hovers  in  the  wind. 

Through  storms  and  tempests  he  the  virgin  bore, 
And  lands  her  safe  on  the  pictean  shore  ; 


METAMORPHOSES.  85. 


"Where  now,  in  his  divinest  form  array'd, 
In  his  true  shape  He  captivates  the  maid ; 
Who  gazes  on  him,  and  with  wondering  eyes 
Beholds  the  new  majestic  figure  rise. 
His  glowing  features,  and  celestial  light, 
And  all  the  god  discover'd  to  her  sight. 


BOOK    III. 


THE  STORY  OP  CADMUS. 


When  now  Agenor  had  his  daughter  lost, 
He  sent  his  son  to  search  on  every  coast ; 
And  sternly  bid  him  to  his  arms  restore 
The  darling  maid,  or  see  his  face  no  more, 
But  live  an  exile  in  a  foreign  clime : 
Thus  was  the  father  pious  to  a  crime. 

The  restless  youth  search'd  all  the  world  around ; 
But  how  can  Jove  in  his  amours  be  found  ? 
When  tired  at  length  with  unsuccessful  toil, 
To  shun  his  angry  sire  and  native  soil, 
He  goes  a  suppliant  to  the  Delphic  dome  ; 
There  asks  the  god  what  new-appointed  home 
-   Should  end  his  wand'rings  and  his  toils  relieve. 
The  Delphic  oracles  this  answer  give. 

"  Behold  among  the  fields  a  lonely  cow. 
Unworn  with  yokes,  unbroken  to  the  plow ; 
Mark  well  the  place  where  first  she  lays  her  down, 
There  measure  out  thy  walls  and  build  thy  town, 
And  from  thy  guide,  Boeotia  call  the  land, 
In  which  the  destin'd  walls  and  town  shall  stand." 


86  TRANSLATIONS. 

No  sooner  had  he  left  the  dark  abode, 
Big  with  the  promise  of  the  Delphic  god, 
When  in  the  fields  the  fatal  cow  he  view'd, 
Nor  gall'd  with  yokes,  nor  worn  with  servitude : 
Her  gently  at  a  distance  he  pursu'd ; 
And  as  he  walk'd  aloof,  in  silence  pray'd 
To  the  great  power  whose  counsels  he  obey'd. 
Her  way  through  flowery  Panope  she  took, 
And  now,  Cephisus,  cross'd  thy  silver  brook ; 
When  to  the  heavens  her  spacious  front  she  rais'd, 
And  bellow'd  thrice,  then  backward  turning,  gaz'd 
On  those  behind,  'till  on  the  dfestin'd  place 
She  stoop'd,  and  couch'd  amid  the  rising  grass. 

Cadmus  salutes  the  soil,  and  gladly  hails 
The  new-found  mountains,  and  the.  nameless  vales, 
And  thanks  the  gods,  and  turns  about  his  eye 
To  see  his  new  dominions  round  him  lie  ; 
Then  sends  his  servants  to  a  neighbouring  grove 
For  living  streams,  a  sacrifice  to  Jove. 
O'er  the  wide  plain  there  rose  a  shady  wood 
Of  aged  trees ;  in  its  dark  bosom  stood 
A  bushy  thicket,  pathless  and  unworn, 
O'er-run  with  brambles,  and  perplex'd  with  thorn : 
Amidst  the  brake  a  hollow  den  was  found. 
With  rocks  and  shelving  arches  vaulted  round. 

Deep  in  the  dreary  den,  conceal'd  from  day, 
Sacred  to  Mars,  a  mighty  dragon  lay. 
Bloated  w.th  poison  to  a  monstrous  size; 
Fire  broke  in  flashes  when  he  glanc'd  his  eyes ; 
His  towering  crest  was  glorious  to  behold, 
His  shoulders  and  his  sides  were  scal'd  with  gold ; 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  87 

Three  tongues  he  brandish'd  when  he  charg'd  his  foes ; 

His  teeth  stood  jaggy  in  three  dreadful  rows. 

The  Tjrians  in  the  den  for  water  sought, 

And  with  their  urns  explor'd  the  hollow  vault : 

From  side  to  side  their  empty  urns  rebound, 

And  rouse  the  sleepy  serpent  with  the  sound. 

Straight  he  bestirs  him,  and  is  seen  to  rise  ; 

And  now  with  dreadful  hissings  fills  the  skies, 

And  darts  his  forky  tongues,  and  rolls  his  glaring  eyes 

The  Tyrians  drop  their  vessels  in  the  fright, 

All  pale  and  trembling  at  the  hideous  sight. 

Spire  above  spire  uprear'd  in  air  he  stood, 

And  gazing  round  him,  over-look'd  the  wood  : 

Then  floating  on  the  ground,  in  circles  roll'd ; 

Then  leap'd  upon  them  in  a  mighty  fold. 

Of  such  a  bulk,  and  such  a  monstrous  size. 

The  serpent  in  the  polar  circle  lies. 

That  stretches  over  half  the  northern  skies. 

In  vain  the  Tyrians  on  their  arms  rely. 

In  vain  attempt  to  fight,  in  vain  to  fly : 

All  their  endeavours  and  their  hopes  are  vain ; 

Some  die  entangled  in  the  winding  train ; 

Some  are  devour'd  ;  or  feel  a  loathsome  death, 

Swoln  up  with  blasts  of  pestilential  breath. 

And  now  the  scorching  sun  was  mounted  high, 
In  all  its  lustre,  to  the  noon- day  sky ; 
"When,  anxious  for  his  friends,  and  fill'd  with  cares, 
To  search  the  woods  th'  impatient  chief  prepares. 
A  lion's  hide  around  his  loins  he  wore. 
The  well-pois'd  jav'lin  to  the  field  he  bore, 
Inur'd  to  blood ;  the  far-clestroying  dart. 
And,  the  best  weapon,  an  undaunted  heart. 


88  TRANSLATIONS. 

Soon  as  the  youtli  approach'd  the  fatal  place, 
He  saw  his  servants  breathless  on  the  grass ; 
The  scaly  foe  amid  their  corpse  he  view'd, 
Basking  at  ease,  and  feasting  in  their  blood. 
"  Such  friends,"  he  cries,  "  deserv'd  a  longer  date , 
But  Cadmus  will  revenge,  or  share  their  fate." 
Then  heav'd  a  stone,  and  rising  to  the  throw, 
He  sent  it  in  a  whirlwind  at  the  foe  : 
A  tower,  assa,ulted  by  so  rude  a  stroke, 
With  all  its  lofty  battlements  had  shook ; 
But  nothing  here  th'  unwieldy  rock  avails, 
Rebounding  harmless  from  the  plaited  scales. 
That,  firmly  join'd,  preserv'd  him  from  a  wound, 
With  native  armour  crusted  all  around. 
The  pointed  jav'lin  more  successful  flew, 
Which  at  his  back  the  raging  warrior  threw  ; 
Amid  the  plaited  scales  it  took  its  course. 
And  in  the  spinal  marrow  spent  its  force. 
The  monster  hiss'd  aloud,  and  rag'd  in  vain. 
And  writh'd  his  body  to  and  fro  with  pain ; 
And  bit  the  spear,  'and  wrench'd  the  wood  away ; 
The  point  still  buried  in  the  marrow  lay. 
And  now  his  rage,  increasing  with  his  pain. 
Reddens  his  eyes,  and  beats  in  every  vein  ; 
Churn'd  in  his  teeth  the  foamy  venom  rose. 
Whilst  from  his  mouth  a  blast  of  vapours  flows, 
Such  as  th'  infernal  Stygian  waters  cast : 
The  plants  around  him  wither  in  the  blast. 
Now  in  a  maze  of  rings  he  lies  enroll'd, 
Now  all  unravell'd,  and  without  a  fold ; 
Now,  like  a  torrent,  with  a  mighty  force 
Bears  down  the  forest  in  his  boisterous  course. 


O  V  I  D  '  S     METAMORPHOSES.  89 

Cadmus  gave  back,  and  on  tlie  lion's  spoil 

Sustain'd  the  shock,  then  forc'd  him  to  recoil ; 

The  pointed  jav'lin  warded  off  his  rage : 

Mad  with  his  pains,  and  furious  to  engage, 

The  serpent  champs  the  steel,  and  bites  the  spear, 

Till  blood  and  venom  all  the  point  besmear. 

But  still  the  hurt  he  yet  receiv'd  was  slight ; 

For,  whilst  the  champion  with  redoubled  might 

Strikes  home  the  jav'lin,  his  retiring  foe 

Shrinks  from  the  wound,  and  disappoints  the  blow.  . 

The  dauntless  hero  still  pursues  his  stroke, 
And  presses  forward,  'till  a  knotty  oak 
Retards  his  foe,  and  stops  him  in  the  rear ; 
Full  in  his  throat  he  plung'd  the  fatal  spear, 
That  in  th'  extended  neck  a  passage  found, 
And  pierc'd  the  solid  timber  through  the  wound, 
Fix'd  to  the  reeling  trunk,  with  many  a  stroke 
Of  his  huge  tail,  he  lash'd  the  sturdy  oak ; 
Till  spent  with  toil,  and  labouring  hard  for  breath, 
He  now  lay  twisting  in  the  pangs  of  death. 

Cadmus  beheld  him  wallow  in  a  flood 
Of  swimming  poison,  intermix'd  with  blood  ; 
When  suddenly  a  speech  was  heard  from  high, 
(The  speech  was  heard,  nor  was  the  speaker  nigh) 
"  Why  dost  thou  thus  with  secret  pleasure  see, 
Insulting  man  !  what  thou  thyself  shaltSse  ?  " 
Astonish'd  at  the  voice,  he  stood  amaz'd, 
And  all  around  with  inward  horror  gaz'd : 
When  Pallas  swift  descending  from  the  skies, 
Pallas,  the  guardian  of  the  bold  and  wise. 
Bids  him  plow  up  the  field,  and  scatter  round 
The  dragon's  teeth  o'er  all  the  furrow'd  ground ; 


90  TRANSLATIONS. 

Then  tells  the  youth  how  to  his  wondering  eyes 
•         Embattled  armies  from  the  field  should  rise. 

He  sows  the  teeth  at  Pallas's  command, 
And  flings  the  future  people  from  his  hand. 
The  clods  grow  warm,  and  crumble  where  he  sows ; 
And  now  the  pointed  spears  advance  in  rows ; 
Now  nodding  plumes  appear,  and  shining  crests, 
Now  the  broad  shoulders  and  the  rising  breasts ; 
O'er  all  the  field  the  breathing  haFvest  swarms, 
A  growing  host,  a  crop  of  men  and  arms. 

So  through  the  parting  stage  a  figure  rears 
Its  body  up,  and  limb  by  limb  appears 
By  just  degrees  ;  till  all  the  man  arise. 
And  in  his  full  proportion  strikes  the  eyes. 

Cadmus  surpris'd,  and  startled  at  the  sight 
Of  his  new  foes,  prepar'd  himself  for  fight : 
When  one  cry'd  out,  "  Forbear,  fond  man,  forbear 
To  mingle  in  a  blind  promiscuous  war." 
This  said,  he  struck  his  brother  to  the  ground. 
Himself  expiring  by  another's  wound ; 
Nor  did  the  third  his  conquest  long  survive, 
Dying  ere  scarce  he  had  begun  to  live. 

The  dire  example  ran  through  all  the  field, 
Till  heaps  of  brothers  were  by  brothers  kill'd ; 
The  furrows  swam  in  blood  :  and  only  five 
Of  all  the  vast  increase  were  left  alive. 
Echion  one,  at  Pallas's  command. 
Let  fall  the  guiltless  weapon  from  his  hand ; 
And  with  the  rest  a  peaceful  treaty  makes. 
Whom  Cadmus  as  his  friends  and  partners  takes ; 
So  founds  a  city  on  the  promis'd  earth. 
And  gives  his  new  Boeotian  empire  birth. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  91 

Here  Cadmus  reign'd ;  and  now  one  would  have  guess'd 
The  royal  founder  in  his  exile  blest ; 
Long  did  he  live  within  his  new  abodes, 
Ally'd  by  marriage  to  the  deathless  gods ; 
And,  in  a  fruitful  wife's  embraces  old, 
A  long  increase  of  children's  children  told : 
But  no  frail  man,  however  great  or  high. 
Can  be  concluded  blest  before  he  die. 

ActaBon  was  the  first  of  all  his  race, 
"Who  griev'd  his  grandsire  in  his  borrow'd  face; 
Condemn'd  by  stern  Diana  to  bemoan 
The  branching  horns,  and  visage  not  his  own  ; 
To  shun  his  once-lov'd  dogs,  to  bound  away, 
And  from  their  huntsman  to  become  their  prey. 
And  yet  consider  why  the  change  was  wrought, 
You'll  find  it  his  misfortune,  not  his  fault ; 
Or  if  a  fault,  it  was  the  fault  of  chance  : 
For  how  can  guilt  proceed  from  ignorance  ? 

THE  TEANSFOEMATIOX  OF  ACTION  INTO  A  STAG. 

In  a  fair  chase  a  shady  mountain  stood. 
Well  stor'd  with  game,  and  mark'd  with  trails  of  blood. 
Here  did  the  huntsmen  till  the  heat  of  day 
Pursue  the  stag,  and  load  themselves  with  prey ; 
When  thus  Actaeon  calling  to  the  rest :  - 

"  My  friends,"  says  he,  "  our  sport  is  at  the  best. 
The  sun  is  high  advanc'd,  and  downward  sheds 
His  burning  beams  directly  on  our  heads ; 
Then  by  consent  abstain  from  further  spoils, 
Call  off  the  d:)gs,  and  gather  up  the  toils ; 


9^  TRANSLATIONS. 

And  ere  to-morrow's  sun  begins  his  race, 
Take  the  cool  morning  to  renew  the  chase." 
They  all  consent,  and  in  a  cheerful  train 
The  jolly  huntsmen,  loaden  with  the  slain, 
Return  in  triumph  from  the  sultry  plain. 

Down  in  a  vale  with  pine  and  cypress  clad, 
Refresh'd  with  gentle  winds,  and  brown  with  shade, 
The  chaste  Diana's  private  haunt,  there  stood 
Full  in  the  centre  of  the  darksome  wood 
A  spacious  grotto,  all  around  o'er-grbwn 
With  hoary  moss,  and  arch'd  with  pumice-stone, 
From  out  its  rocky  clefts  the  waters  flow. 
And  trickling  swell  into  a  lake  below. 
Nature  had  every  where  so  play'd  her  part. 
That  every  where  she  seem'd  to  vie  with  art. 
Here  the  bright  goddess,  toil'd  and  chaf'd  with  heat, 
'   Was  wont  to  bathe  her  in  the  cool  retreat. 

Here  did  she  now  with  all  her  train  resort, 
Panting  with  heat,  and  breathless  from  the  sport ; 
Her  armour-bearer  laid  her  bow  aside. 
Some  loos'd  her  sandals,  some  her  veil  unty'd ; 
Each  busy  nymph  her  proper  part  undrest ; 
While  Crocale,  more  handy  than  the  rest, 
Gather'd  her  flowing  hair,  and  in  a  noose 
Bound  it  together,  whilst  her  own  hung  loose. 
Five  of  the  more  ignoble  sort  by  turns 
Fetch  up  the  water,  and  unlade  their  urns. 

Now  all  undrest  the  shining  goddess  stood, 
When  young  Actgeon,  wilder'd  in  the  wood, 
To  the  cool  grot  by  his  hard  fate  betray'd. 
The  fountains  fiU'd  with  naked  nymphs  survey'd 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  93 

The  frighted  virgins  shriek'd  at  the  surprise, 

(The  forest  echo'd  with  their  piercing  cries) 

Then  in  a  huddle  round  their  goddess  prest ; 

She,  proudly  eminent  above  the  rest, 

With  blushes  glow'd  ;  such  blushes  as  adorn 

The  ruddy  welkin,  or  the  purple  morn  ; 

And  tho'  the  crowding  nymphs  her  body  hide, 

Half  backward  shrunk,  and  view'd  him  from  aside. 

Surpris'd,  at  first  she  would  have  snatch'd  her  bow, 

But  sees  the  circling  waters  round  her  flow  ; 

These  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand  she  took. 

And  dash'd  'em  in  his  face,  while  thus  she  spoke  : 

"  Tell  if  thou  canst  the  wondrous  sight  disclos'd, 

A  goddess  naked  to  thy  view  expos'd." 

This  said,  the  man  began  to  disappear 
By  slow  degrees,  and  ended  in  a  deer. 
A  rising  horn  on  either  brow  he  wears. 
And  stretches  out  his  neck,  and  pricks  his  ears  ; 
Bough  is  his  skin,  with  sudden  hairs  o'er-grown, 
His  bosom  pants  with  fears  before  unknown, 
Transform'd  at  length,  he  flies  away  in  haste. 
And  wonders  why  he  flies  away  so  fast. 
But  as  by  'chance,  within  a  neighbouring  brook, 
He  saw  his  branching  horns  and  alter' d  look, 
Wretched  Actaeon  !  in  a  doleful  tone 
He  try'd  to  speak,  but  only  gave  a  groan ; 
And  as  he  wept,  within  the  wat'ry  glass 
He  saw  the  big  round  drops,  with  silent  pace. 
Bun  trickling  down  a  savage  hairy  face. 
What  should  he  do  ?     Or  seek  his  old  abodes, 
Or  herd  among  the  deer,  and  sculk  in  woods  ? 


94  TRANSLATIONS. 

Here  shame  dissuades  him,  there  his  fear  prevails, 
And  each  by  turns  his  aching  heart  assails. 

As  he  thus  ponders,  he  behind  him  spies 
His  opening  hounds,  and  now  he  hears  their  cries : 
A  generous  pack,  or  to  maintain  the  chase, 
Or  snuff  the  vapour  from  the  scented  grass. 

He  bounded  off  with  fear,  and  swiftly  ran 
O'er  craggy  mountains,  and  the  flowery  plain ; 
Through  brakes  and  thickets  forc'd  his  way,  and  flew 
Through  many  a  ring,  where  once  he  did  pursue. 
In  vain  he  oft  endeavour'd  to  proclaim 
His  new  misfortune,  and  to  tell  his  name ; 
Nor  voice  nor  words  the  brutal  tongue  supplies ; 
From  shouting  men,  and  horns,  and  dogs  he  flies, 
Deafen'd  and  stunn'd  with  their  promiscuous  cries. 
When  now  the  fleetest  of  the  pack,  that  prcst 
Close  at  his  heels,  and  sprung  before  the  rest. 
Had  fasten'd  on  him,  straight  another  pair 
Hung  on  his  wounded  haunch,  and  held  him  there, 
Till  all  the  pack  came  up,  and  every  hound 
Tore  the  sad  huntsman,  grov'ling  on  the  ground. 
Who  now  appear'd  but  one  continu'd  wound. 
With  dropping  tears  his  bitter  fate  he  moans,  ' 
And  fills  the  mountain  with  his  dying  groans. 
His  servants  with  a  piteous  look  he  spies, 
And  turns  about  his  supplicating  eyes. 
His  servants,  ignorant  of  what  had  chanc'd, 
With  eager  haste  and  joyful  shouts  advanc'd. 
And  call'd  their  lord  Actaeon  to  the  game : 
He  shook  his  head  in  answer  to  the  name ; 
He  heard,  but  wish'd  he  had  indeed  been  gone, 
Or  only  to  have  stood  a  looker  on. 


95 


But,  to  his  grief,  he  finds  himself  too  near, 
And  feels  his  rav'nous  dogs  with  fury  tear 
Their  wretched  master,  panting  in  a  deer. 


THE   BIRTH   OF   BACCHUS. 

Actaeon's  sufferings,  and  Diana's  rage, 
Did  all  the  thoughts  of  men  and  gods  engage ; 
S'ome  call'd  the  evils  which  Diana  wrought, 
Too  great,  and  disproportion'd  to  the  fault  • 
Others  again  esteem'd  Act99on's  woes 
Fit  for  a  virgin  goddess  to  impose. 
The  hearers  into  different  parts  divide. 
And  reasons  are  produced  on  either  side. 

Juno  alone,  of  all  that  heard  the  news. 
Nor  would  condemn  the  goddess,  nor  excuse : 
She  heeded  not  the  justice  of  the  deed, 
But  joy'd  to  see  the  race  of  Cadmus  bleed  ; 
For  still  she  kept  Europa  in  her  mind, 
And,  for  her  sake,  detested  all  her  kind. 
Besides,  to  aggravate  her  hate,  she  heard 
How  Semele,  to  Jove's  embrace  preferr'd, 
Was  now  grown  big  with  an  immortal  load, 
And  carry 'd  in  her  womb  a  future  god. 
Thus  terribly  incens'd  the  goddess  broke 
To  sudden  fury,  and  abruptly  spoke. 

"  Are  my  reproaches  of  so  small  a  force  ? 
'Tis  ^ime  I  then  pursue  another  course : 
It  is  decreed  the  guilty  wretch  shall  die, 
If  I'm  indeed  the  mistress  of  the  sky ; 
If  rightly  styl'd  among  the  powers  above 
The  wife  and  sister  of  the  thundering  Jove ; 


^6  TRANSLATIONS. 

(And  none  can  sure  a  sister's  right  deny) 
It  is  decreed  the  guilty  wretch  shall  die. 
She  boasts  an  honour  I  can  hardly  claim ; 
Pregnant,  she  rises  to  a  mother's  name ; 
While  proud  and  vain  she  triumphs  in  her  Jove, 
And  shows  the  glorious  tokens  of  his  love : 
But  if  I'm  still  the  mistress  of  the  skies, 
By  her  own  lover  the  fond  beauty  dies." 
This  said,  descending  in  a  yellow  cloud, 
Before  the  gates  of  Semele  she  stood. 

Old  Beroe's  decrepit  shape  she  wears. 
Her  wrinkled  visage,  and  her  hoary  hairs ; 
Whilst  in  her  trembling  gait  she  totters  on, 
And  learns  to  tattle  in  the  nurse's  tone. 
The  goddess,  thus  disguis'd  in  age,  beguil'd 
With  pleasing  stories  her  false  foster-child. 
Mudi  did  she  talk  of  love,  and  when  she  came 
To  mention  to  the  nymph  her  lover's  name, 
Fetching  a  sigh,  and  holding  down  her  head, 
"  'Tis  well,"  says  she,  "  if  all  be  true  that's  said 
But  trust  me,  child,  I'm  much  inclin'd  to  fear 
Some  counterfeit  in  this  your  Jupiter. 
Many  an  honest,  well-designing  maid, 
Has  been  by  these  pretended  gods  betray'd. 
But  if  he  be  indeed  the  thundering  Jove, 
Bid  him,  when  next  he  courts  the  rites  of  love, 
Descend  triumphant  from  th'  ethereal  sky. 
In  all  the  pomp  of  his  divinity ; 
Encompass'd  round  by  those  celestial  charms, 
With  which  he  fills  th'  immortal  Juno's  arms." 

Th'  unwary  nymph,  insnar'd  with  what  she  said, 
Desir'd  of  Jove,  when  next  he  sought  her  bed, 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  97 

To  grant  a  certain  gift  which  she  would  chuse ; 

"  Fear  not,"  replj'd  the  god,  "  that  I'll  refuse 

Whate'er  you  ask  :  may  Styx  confirm  my  voice, 

Chuse  what  you  will,  and  you  shall  have  your  choice. 

"  Then,"  says  the  nymph,  "  when  next  you  seek  my  arms, 

May  you  descend  in  those  celestial  charms. 

With  which  your  Juno's  bosom  you  inflame 

And  fill  with  transport  heaven's  immortal  dame." 

The  god  surpris'd,  would  fain  have  stopp'd  her  voice  * 

But  he  had  sworn,  and  she  had  made  her  choice. 

To  keep  his  promise  he  ascends,  and  shrouds 
His  awful  brow  in  whirlwinds  and  in  clouds ; 
Whilst  all  around,  in  terrible  array, 
His  thunders  rattle,  and  his  lightnings  play. 
And  yet,  the  dazzling  lustre  to  abate, 
He  set  not  out  in  all  his  pomp  and  state, 
Clad  in  the  mildest  lightning  of  the  skies. 
And  arm'd  with  thunder  of  the  smallest  size  : 
Not  those  huge  bolts,  by  which  the  giants  slain, 
Lay  overthrown  on  the  Phlegrean  plain. 
'Twas  of  a  lesser  mould,  and  lighter  weight ; 
They  call  it  thunder  of  a  second-rate. 
For  the  rough  Cyclops,  who  by  Jove's  command 
Temper'd  the  bolt  and  turn'd  it  to  his  hand, 
Work'd  up  less  flame  and  fury  in  its  make, 
And  quench'd  it  sooner  in  the  standing  lake. 
Thus  dreadfully  adorn'd,  with  horror  bright, 
Th'  illustrious  god,  descending  from  his  height. 
Came  rushing  on  her  in  a  storm  of  light. 

The  mortal  dame,  too  feeble  to  engage 
The  ligl^tning's  flashes,  and  the  thunder's  rage, 


98  TRANSLATIONS 

Consum'd  amidst  the  glories  she  desir'd, 
And  in  the  terrible  embrace  expir'd. 

But,  to  preserve  his  offspring  from  the  tomb, 
Jove  took  him  smoking  from  the  blasted  womb  ; 
And,  if  on  ancient  tales  we  may  rely, 
Inclos'd  th'  abortive  mfant  in  his  thigh. 
Here,  when  the  babe  had  all  his  time  fulfill'd, 
Ino  first  took  him  for  her  foster-child  ; 
Then  the  Niseans,  in  their  dark  abode, 
Nurs'd  secretly  with  milk  the  thriving  god. 

THE    TRANSFOEMATION    OF    TIBESIAS. 

'Twas  now,  while  these  transactions  past  on  earth. 
And  Bacchus  thus  procur'd  a  second  birth, 
"When  Jove,  dispos'd  to  lay  aside  the  weight 
Of  public  empire,  and  the  cares  of  state  ; 
As'to  his  queen  in  nectar  bowls  he  quaff 'd, 
"  In  troth,"  says  he,  and  as  he  spoke  he  laugh 'd, 
"  The  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  male  is  far 
More  dull  and  dead  than  what  you  females  share-" 
Juno  the  truth  of  what  was  said  deny'd ; 
Tiresias  therefore  must  the  cause  decide  ; 
For  he  the  pleasure  of  each  sex  had  try'd. 

It  happen'd  once,  within  a  shady  wood, 
Two  twisted  snakes  he  in  con j unction. view'd; 
When  with  his  staff  their  slimy  folds  he  broke, 
And  lost  his  manhood  at  the  fatal  stroke. 
But,  after  seven  revolving  years  he  view'd 
The  self-same  serpents  in  the  self-same  wood ; 
"  And  if,"  says  he,  "  such  virtue  in  you  lie, 
That  he  who  dares  your  slimy  folds  untie 
Must  change  his  kind,  a  second  stroke  I'll  try." 


ovid's    meta MORI' hoses.  99. 

Again  he  struck  the  snakes,  and  stood  again 

New-sex'd,  and  straight  recover'd  into  man. 

Him  therefore  both  the  deities  create 

The  sovereign  umpife  in  their  grand  debate  ; 

And  he  declar'd  for  Jove  ;  when  Juno,  fir'd 

More  than  so  trivial  an  affair  requir'd, 

Depriv'd  him,  in  her  fury,  of  his  sight. 

And  left  him  groping  round  in  sudden  night. 

But  Jove  (for  so  it  is  in  heaven  decreed, 

That  no  one  god  repeal  another's  deed ;) 

Irradiates  all  his  soul  with  inward  light. 

And  with  the  prophet's  art  relieves  the  want  of  sight. 

THE   TEANSFOEMATION   OF   ECHO. 

Fam'd  far  and  near  for  knowing  things  to  come, 
From  him  th'  inquiring  nations  sought  their  doom ; 
The  fair  Liriope  his  answers  try'd, 
And  first  th'  unerring  prophet  justify'd  ; 
This  nymph  the  god  Cephisus  had  abus'd,  ' 

With  all  his  winding  waters  circumfus'd, 
And  on  the  Nereid  got  a  lovely  boy, 
Whom  the  soft  maids  even  then  beheld  with  joy. 

The  tender  dame,  solicitous  to  know 
Whether  her  child  should  reach  old  age  or  no. 
Consults  the  sage  Tiresias,  who  replies, 
"  If  e'er  he  knows  himself,  he  surely  dies." 
Long  liv'd  the  dubious  mother  in  suspense, 
Till  time  unriddled  all  the  prophet's  sense. 

Narcissus  now  his  sixteenth  year  began, 
Just  turned  of  boy,  and  on  the  verge  of  man ; 
Many  a  friend  the  blooming  youth  caress'd, 
Many  a  love-sick  maid  her  flame  confess'd. 


JOO  TRANSLATIONS. 

Such  was  his  pride,  in  vain  the  friend  caressM, 
The  love-sick  maid  in  vain  her  flame  confess'd. 

Once,  in  the  woods,  as  he  pursu'd  the  chase, 
The  babbling  Echo  had  descry'd  hig"  face ; 
She,  who  in  other's  words  her  silence  breaks, 
Nor  speaks  herself  but  when  another  speaks. 
Echo  was  then  a  maid,  of  speech  bereft, 
Of  wonted  speech ;  for  tho'  her  voice  was  left, 
Juno  a  curse  did  on  her  tongue  impose. 
To  sport  with  every  sentence  in  the  close. 
Full  often  when  the  goddess  might  have  caught 
Jove  and  her  rivals  in  the  very  fault, 
This  nymph  with  subtle  stories  would  delay 
Her  coming,  till  the  lovers  slipp'd  away. 
The  goddess  found  out  the  deceit  in  time. 
And  then  she  cry'd,  "  That  tongue,  for  this  thy  crime, 
Which  could  so  many  subtle  tales  produce, 
Shall  be  hereafter  but  of  little  use." 
Hence  'tis  she  prattles  in  a  fainter  tone. 
With  mimic  sounds,  and  accents  not  her  own. 

This  love-sick  virgin,  over-joy'd  to  find 
The  boy  alone,  still  follow 'd  hiiji  behind ; 
When,  glowing  warmly  at  her  near  approach. 
As  sulphur  blazes  at  the  taper's  touch. 
She  long'd  her  hidden  passion  to  reveal. 
And  tell  her  pains,  but  had  not  words  to  tell: 
She  can't  begin,  but  waits  for  the  rebound. 
To  catch  his  voice,  and  to  return  the  sound. 

The  nymph,  when  nothing  could  Narcissus  move,* 
Still  dash'd  with  blushes  for  her  slighted  love, 


•    Wktn  nothing  could  Harcisms  move.     One  would  think,   from  the 
expression,  that  the  means  taken  by  Echo  to  move  Narcissus,  had  been 


OVID^S      METAMORPHOSES.  101 

Liv'd  in  the  shady  covert  of  the  woods, 
In  solitary  caves  and  dark  abodes  ; 
Where  pining  wander'd  the  rejected  fair, 
Till  harass'd  out,  and  worn  away  with  care, 
The  sounding  skeleton,  of  blood  bereft. 
Besides  her  bones  and  voice  had  nothing  left. 
Her  bones  are  petrify'd,  her  voice  is  found 
In  vaults,  where  still  it  doubles  every  sound. 

THE    STOET    OF    NAECIS8US. 

Thus  did  the  nymphs  in  vain  caress  the  boy, 
He  still  was  lovely,  but  he  still  was  coy ; 
When  one  fair  virgin  of  the  slighted  train 
Thus  pray'd  the  gods,  provok'd  by  his  disdain, 
"  Oh  may  he  love  like  me,  and  love  like  me  in  vain !  " 
Rhamnusia  pity'd  the  neglected  fair. 
And  with  just  vengeance  answer' d  to  her  prayer. 

There  stands  a  fountain  in  a  darksome  wood, 
Nor  stain'd  with  falling  leaves  nor  rising  mud ; 
Untroubled  by  the  breath  of  winds  it  rests, 
Unsully'd  by  the  touch  of  men  or  beasts ; 
High  bowers  of  shady  trees  above  it  grow, 
And  rising  grass  and  cheerful  greens  below. 
Pleas'd  with  the  form  and  coolness  of  the  place,* 
And  over-heated  by  the  morning  chase, 
Narcissus  on  the  grassy  verdure  lies  : 
But  whilst  within  the  crystal  fount  he  tries 
To  quench  his  heat,  he  feels  new  heats  arise. 

specified ;  and  so  th  jy  are  in  the  original.  The  truth  is,  fourteen  lines  are 
here  omitted,  not  \»  ithout  good  reason ;  but  the  inartificial  connection 
betrays  the  omission. 

^Pleased  with  th'-  form  and  coolness  of  the  place.  Easier,  and  better 
than  the  original, — '■^faciemque  loci,  fontemque  secutus"  Yet>  without 
losing  the  Ovidian  turn  of  expression. 


■f02  TRANSLATIONS. 

For  as  his  own  bright  image  he  survey'd, 

He  fell  in  love  with  the  fantastic  shade  ; 

And  o'er  the  fair  resemblance  hung  nnmov'd, 

Nor  knew,  fond  youth  !  it  was  himself  he  lov'd. 

The  well-turn'd  neck  and  shoulders  he  descries, 

The  spacious  forehead,  and  the  sparkling  ej^es ; 

The  hands  that  Bacchus  might  not  scorn  to  show, 

And  hair  that  round  Apollo's  head  might  flow, 

With  all  the  purple  youthfulness  of  face, 

That  gently  blushes  in  the  wat'ry  glass. 

By  his  own  flames  consum'd  the  lover  lies, 

And  gives  himself  the  wound  by  which  he  dies. 

To  the  cold  water  oft  he  joins  his  lips. 

Oft  catching  at  the  beauteous  shade  he  dips 

His  arms,  as  often  from  himself  he  slips. 

Nor  knows  he  who  it  is  his  arms  pursue 

With  eager  clasps,  but  loves  he  knows  not  who. 

What  could,  fond  youth,  this  helpless  passion  move  ? 

What  kindle  in  thee  this  unpity'd  love  ? 

Thy  own  warm  blush  within  the  water  glows. 

With  thee  the  colour'd  shadow  comes  and  goes. 

Its  empty  being  on  thyself  relies  ; 

Step  thou  aside,  and  the  frail  charmer  dies. 

Still  o'er  the  fountain's  wat'ry  gleam  he  stood, 
Mindless  of  sleep,  and  negligent  of  food  ; 
Still  view'd  his  face,  and  languish'd  as  he  view'd. 
At  length  he  rais'd  his  head,  and  thus  began 
To  vent  his  griefs,  and  tell  the  woods  his  pain. 
*  You  trees,"  says  he,  "  and  thou  surrounding  grove, 
Who  oft  have  been  the  kindly  scenes  of  love, 
Tell  me,  if  e'er  within  your  shades  did  lie 
A  youth  so  tortur'd,  so  perplex'd  as  I  ? 


ovid's    metamor  pho  &  es.  103 

I  who  before  me  see  the  charming  fair, 

Whilst  there  he  stands,  and  yet  he  stands  not  there  . 

In  such  a  maze  of  love  my  thoughts  are  lost ; 

And  yet  no  bulwark'd  town  nor  distant  coast. 

Preserves  the  beauteous  youth  from  being  seen, 

No  mountains  rise,  nor  oceans  flow  between. 

A  shallow  water  hinders  my  embrace ; 

And  yet  the  lovely  mimic  wears  a  face 

That  kindly  ^miles,  and  when  I  bend  to  join 

My  lips  to  his,  he  fondly  bends  to  mine.  '■  r^ 

Hear,  gentle  youth,  and  pity  my  complaint, 

Come  from  thy  well,  thou  fair  inhabitant. 

My  charms  an  easy  conquest  have  obtain'd 

O'er  other  hearts,  by  thee  alone  disdain'd. 

But  why  should  I  despair  ?     I'm  sure  he  burns 

With  equal  flames,  and  languishes  by  turns. 

Whene'er  I  stoop  he  offers  at  a  kiss. 

And  when  my  arms  I  stretch,  he  stretches  his. 

His  eye  with  pleasure  on  my  face  he  keeps, 

He  smiles  my  smiles,  and  when  I  weep  he  weeps.^  ^ 

Whene'er  I  speak,  his  moving  lips  appear    " 

To  utter  something,  which  I  cannot  hear. 

"  Ah  wretched  me  !  I  now  begin  too  late 
To  find  out  all  the  long-perplex'd  deceit ; 
It  is  myself  I  love,  myself  I  see  ; 
The  gay  delusion  is  a  part  of  me. 
I  kindle  up  the  fires  by  which  I  burn. 
And  my  own  beauties  from  the  well  return. 
Whom  should  I  court  ?  how  utter  my  complaint  ? 
Enjoyment  but  produces  my  restraint, 
And  too  much  plenty  makes  me  die  for  want. 


i04  TRANSLATIONS. 

How  gladly  would  I  from  myself  remove  f 

And  at  a  distance  set  the  thing  I  love. 

My  breast  is  warm'd  with  such  unusual  fire, 

I  wish  him  absent  whom  I  most  desire. 

And  now  I  faint  with  grief ;  my  fate  draws  nigh ; 

In  all  the  pride  of  blooming  youth  I  die. 

Death  will  the  sorrows  of  my  heart  relieve. 

0  might  the  visionary  youth  survive, 

1  should  with  joy  my  latest  breath  resign  I 
But  oh  !  I  see  his  fate  involv'd  in  mine." 

This  said,  the  weeping  youth  again  return'd 
To  the  clear  fountain,  where  again  he  burn'd ; 
His  tears  defac'd  the  surface  of  the  well 
With  circle  after  circle,  as  they  fell : 
And  now  the  lovely  face  but  half  appears, 
O'errun  with  wrinkles,  and  deform'd  with  tears. 
"  Ah  whither,"  cries  Narcissus,  "  dost  thou  fly  ? 
Let  me  still  feed  the  flame  by  which  I  die ; 
Let  me  still  see,  tho'  I'm  no  further  blest," 
Then  rends  his  garment  off,  and  beats  his  breast 
His  naked  bosom  redden'd  with  the  blow, 
In  such  a  blush  as  purple  clusters  show, 
Ere  yet  the  sun's  autumnal  heats  refine 
Their  sprightly  juice,  and  mellow  it  to  wine. 
The  glowing  beauties  of  his  breast  he  spies, 
And  with  a  new  redoubled  passion  dies. 
As  wax  dissolves,  as  ice  begins  to  run. 
And  trickle  into  drops  before  the  sun ; 
So  melts  the  youth,  and  languishes  away, 
His  beauty  withers,  and  his  limbs  decay ; 
And  none  of  those  attractive  charms  remain, 
To  which  the  slighted  Echo  sued  in  vain. 


105 


She  saw  him  in  his  present  misery, 
Whom,  spite  of  all  her  wrongs,  she  griev'd  to  see  - 
She  answer'd  sadly  to  the  lover's  moan, 
Sigh'd  back  his  sighs,  and  groan'd  to  every  groan : 
"  Ah  youth  !  belov'd  in  vain,"  Narcissus  cries ; 
"  Ah  youth  !  belov'd  in  vain,"  the  nymph  replies. 
"  Farewel,"  says  he  ;  the  parting  sound  scarce  fell 
From  his  faint  lips,  but  she  replied,  "  Farewel." 
Then  on  th'  unwholesome  earth  he  gasping  lies. 
Till  death  shuts  up  those  self-admiring  eyes. 
To  the  cold  shades  his  flitting  ghost  retires, 
And  in  the  Stygian  waves  itself  admires. 

For  him  the  Naiads  and  the  Dryads  mourn, 
Whom  the  sad  Echo  answers  in  her  turn ; 
And  now  the  sister-nymphs  prepare  his  urn : 
When,  looking  for  his  corpse,  they  only  found 
A  rising  stalk,  with  yellow  blossoms  crown'd. 

THE    STOKY    OF    PENTHEU8. 

This  sad  event  gave  blind  Tiresias  fame, 
Through  Greece  establish'd  in  a  prophet's  name. 

Th'  unhallow'd  Pentheus  only  durst  deride 
The  cheated  people,  and  their  eyeless  guide. 
To  whom  the  prophet  in  his  fury  said. 
Shaking  the  hoary  honours  of  his  head  ; 
"  'Twere  well,  presumptuous  man,  'twere  well  for  thee 
If  thou  wert  eyeless  too,  and  blind,  like  me  : 
For  the  time  comes,  nay,  'tis  already  here, 
When  the  young  god's  solemnities  appear  ; 
Which,  if  thou  dost  not  with  just  rites  adorn, 
Thy  impious  carcass,  into  pieces  torn. 
Shall  strew  the  woods,  and  hang  on  every  thorn. 

VOL.  I. — 5* 


106  TRANSLATIONS. 

Then,  then^  remember  what  I  now  fortel, 
And  own  the  blind  Tiresias  saw  too  well." 
Still  Pentheus  scorns  him,  and  derides  his  skill, 
But  time  did  all  the  promis'd  threats  fulfil. 
For  now  thro'  prostrate  Grreece  young  Bacchus  rode, 
Whilst  howling  matrons  celebrate  the  god. 
All  ranks  and  sexes  to  his  orgies  ran, 
To  mingle  in  the  pomps,  and  fill  th.e  train. 
When  Pentheus  thus  his  wicked  rage  express'd  ; 
"  What  madness,  Thebans,  has  your  souls  possess'd  ? 
Can  hollow  timbrels,  can  a  drunken  shout. 
And  the  lewd  clamours  of  a  beastly  rout, 
Thus  quell  your  courage  ?  can  the  weak  alarm 
Of  women's  yells,  those  stubborn  souls  disarm. 
Whom  nor  the  sword  nor  trumpet  e'er  could  fright, 
Nor  the  loud  din  and  horror  of  a  fight  ? 
And  you,  our  sires,  who  left  your  old  abodes. 
And  fix'd  in  foreign  earth  your  country  gods ; 
Will  you  without  a  stroke  your  city  yield. 
And  poorly  quit  an  undisputed  field  ? 
But  you,  whose  youth  and  vigour  should  inspire 
Heroic  warmth,  and  kindle  martial  fire, 
Whom  burnish'd  arms  and  crested  helmets  grace. 
Not  flowery  garlands  and  a  painted  face  ; 
Remember  him  to  whom  you  stand  ally'd : 
The  serpent  for  his  well  of  waters  dy'd. 
He  fought  the  strong ;  do  you  his  courage  show, 
And  gain  a  conquest  o'er  a  feeble  foe. 
If  Thebes  must  fall,  oh  might  the  fates  afford 
,        A  nobler  doom  from  famine,  fire,  or  sword  ! 
Then  might  the  Thebans  perish  with  renown  : 
But  now  a  beardless  victor  sacks  the  town  ; 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  107 

"Whom  nor  the  prancing  steed,  nor  pond'rous  shield, 

Nor  the  hack'd  helmet,  nor  the  dusty  field, 

But  the  soft  joys  of  luxury  and  ease, 

The  purple  vests,-  and  flowery  garlands  please. 

Stand  then  aside,  I'll  make  the  counterfeit 

Renounce  his  godhead,  and  confess  the  cheat. 

Acrisius  from  the  Grecian  walls  repell'd 

This  boasted  power.;  why  then  should  Pentheus  yield; 

Go  quickly,  drag  th'  audacious  boy  to  me  ;  ' 

I'll  try  the  force  of  his  divinity." 

Thus  did  th'  audacious  wretch  those  rites  profane, 

His  friends  dissuade  th'  audacious  wretch  in  vain ; 

In  vain  his  grandsire  urg'd  him  to  give  o'er 

His  impious  threats  ;  the  wretch  but  raves  the  more. 

So  have  I  seen  a  river  gently  glide, 
In  a  smooth  course  and  inoffensive  tide  ; 
But  if  with  dams  its  current  we  restrain, 
It  bears  down  all,  and  foams  along  the  plain. 

But  now  his  servants  came  besmear'd  with  blood, 
Sent  by  their  haughty  prince  to  seize  the  god  ; 
The  god  they  found  not  in  the  frantic  throng, 
But  dragg'd  a  zealous  votary  along. 

THE  MARINERS  TRANSFORMED  TO  DOLPHINS. 

Him  Pentheus  view'd  with  fury  in  his  look, 
And  scarce  withheld  his  hands  while  thus  he  spoke  : 
"  Vile  slave  !  whom  speedy  vengeance  shall  pursue, 
And  terrify  thy  base  seditious  crew : 
Thy  country  and  thy  parentage  reveal. 
And  why  thou  join'st  in  these  mad  orgies  tell." 

The  captive  views  him  with  undaunted  eyes. 
And,  arm'd  with  inward  innocence,  replies. 


108  TRANSLATIONS. 

"  From  high  Meonia's  rocky  shores  I  carae, 
Of  poor  descent,  Acoetes  is  my  name  : 
My  sire  was  meanly  born  ;  no  oxen  plow'd 
His  fruitful  fields,  nor  in  his  pastures  Ic  7,''d. 
His  whole  estate  within  the  waters  lay ; 
With  lines  and  hooks  he  caught  the  finny  prey. 
His  art  was  all  his  livelihood  ;  which  he 
Thus  with  his  dying  lips  bequeath'd  to  me : 
In  streams,  my  boy,  and  rivers,  take  thy  chance ; 
There  swims,"  said  he,  "  thy  whole  inheritance. 

"  Long  did  I  live  on  this  poor  legacy ; 
Til]  tir'd  with  rocks,  and  my  own  native  sky, 
To  arts  of  navigation  I  inclined ; 
Observ'd  the  turns  and  changes  of  the  wind : 
Learn'd  the  fit  havens,  and  began  to  note 
The  stormy  Hyades,  the  rainy  Goat, 
The  bright  Taygete,  and  the  shining  bears, 
With  all  the  sailor's  catalogue  of  stars. 

"  Once,  as  by  chance  for  Delos  I  design'd, 
My  vessel,  driv'n  by  a  strong  gust  of  wiLt'3^ 
Moor'd  in  a  Chian  creek ;  ashore  I  went. 
And  all  the  following  night  in  Chios  spent. 
When  morning  rose,  I  sent  my  mates  to  bring 
Supplies  of  water  from  a  neighb'riug  spring, 
Whilst  I  the  motion  of  the  winds  explor'd ; 
Then  summon'd  in  my  crew,  and  went  aboard. 
Opheltes  heard  my  summons,  and  with  joy 
Brought  to  the  shore  a  soft  and  lovely  boy, 
With  more  than  female  sweetness  in  his  look, 
Whom  straggling  in  the  neighb'riug  fields  he  took. 
With  fumes  of  wine  the  little  captive  glows, 
And  nods  with  sleep,  and  staggers  as  he  goes. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  109 

"  I  view'd  him  nicely,  and  began  to  trace 
Each  heavenly  feature,  each  immortal  grace, 
And  saw  divinity  in  all  his  face. 

*  I  know  not  who,'  said  I,  '  this  god  should  be ; 
But  that  he  is  a  god  I  plainly  see : 

And  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  excuse  the  force 

These  men  have  us'd ;  and,  oh !  befriend  our  course ' 

*  Pray  not  for  us,'  the  nimble  Dictys  cry'd, 
Dictys,  that  could  the  main- top-mast  bestride, 
And  down  the  rope  with  active  vigour  slide. 
To  the  same  purpose  old  Epopeus  spoke, 
Who  overlook'd  the  oars,  and  tim'd  the  stroke  j 
The  same  the  pilot,  and  the  same  the  rest; 
Such  impious  avarice  their  souls  possest. 

'  Nay,  heaven  forbid  that  I  should  bear  away 
Within  my  vessel  so  divine  a  prey,' 
Said  I ;  and  stood  to  hinder  their  intent : 
When  Lycabas,  a  wretch  for  murder  sent 
From  Tuscany,  to  suffer  banishment, 
With  his  clench'd  fist  had  struck  me  overboard, 
Had  not  my  hands,  in  falling,  grasp'd  a  cord. 
"  His  base  confederates  the  fact  approve ; 
When  Bacchus,  (for  'twas  he)  began  to  move, 
Wak'd  by  the  noise  and  clamours  which  they  rais'd ; 
And  shook  his  drowsy  limbs,  and  round  him  gaz'd : 

*  What  means  this  noise  ?  '  he  cries ;  '  am  I  betray'd  ? 
Ah  !  whither,  whither  must  I  be  convey'd  ? ' 

'  Fear  not,'  said  Proreus,  '  child,  but  tell  us  where 
You  wish  to  land,  and  trust  our  friendly  care.' 
'  To  Naxos  then  direct  your  course,'  said  he ; 

*  Naxos  a  hospitable  port  shall  be 
To  each  of  you,  a  joyful  home  to  me.' 


no  TRANSLATIONS. 

By  every  god  that  rules  the  sea  or  sky, 
The  perjur'd  villains  promise  to  comply, 
Aud  bid  me  hasten  to  unmoor  the  ship. 
With  eager  joy  I  launch  into  the  deep ; 
And,  heedless  of  the  fraud,  for  Naxos  stand : 
They  whisper  oft,  and  beckon  with  the  hand, 
And  give  me  signs,  all  anxious  for  their  prey. 
To  tack  about,  and  steer  another  way. 

*  Then  let  some  other  to  my  post  succeed,' 
Said  I,  *  I'm  guiltless  of  so  foul  a  deed.' 

'  What,'  says  Ethalion,  'must  the  ship's  whole  crew 
Follow  your  humour,  and  depend  on  you  ? ' 
And  straight  himself  he  seated  at  the  prore, 
"And  tack'd  about  and  sought  another  shore. 

"  The  beauteous  youth  now  found  himself  betray'd, 
And  from  the  deck  the  rising  waves  survey'd, 
And  seem'd  to  weep,  and  as  he  wept  he  said ; 

*  And  do  you  thus  my  easy  faith  beguile  ? 
Thus  do  you  bear  me  to  my  native  isle  ? 
Will  such  a  multitude  of  men  employ 

Their  strength  against  a  weak  defenceless  boy  ? ' 

"  In  vain  did  I  the  god-like  youth  deplore, 
The  more  I  begg'd,  they  thwarted  me  the  more. 
And  now  by  all  the  gods  in  heaven  that  hear 
This  solemn  oath,  by  Bacchus'  self,  I  swear, 
The  mighty  miracle  that  did  ensue. 
Although  it  seems  beyond  belief,  is  true. 
The  vessel,  fix'd  and  rooted  in  the  flood, 
Unmov'd  by  all  the  beating  billows  stood. 
In  vain  the  mariners  would  plow  the  main 
With  sails  unfurl'd,  and  strike  their  )ars  in  vain : 


Ill 


A.round  their  oars  a  twining  ivy  cleaves, 

And  climbs  the  mast  and  hides  the  cords  in  leaves : 

The  sails  are  cover'd  with  a  cheerful  green, 

And  berries  in  the  fruitful  canvas  seen. 

Amidst  the  waves  a  sudden  forest  rears 

Its  verdant  head,  and  a  new  spring  appears. 

"  The  God  we  now  behold  with  open'd  eyes  ; 
A  herd  of  spotted  panthers  round  him  lies 
In  glaring  forms  ;  the  grapy  clusters  spread 
On  his  fair  brows,  and  dangle  on  his  head. 
And  whilst  he  frowns,  and  brandishes  his  spear. 
My  mates,  surpris'd  with  madness  or  with  fear, 
Leap'd  overboard  ;  first  perjur'd  Madon  found 
Rough  scales  and  fins  his  stiff 'ning  sides  surround ; 
*  Ah  !  what,'  cries  one,  '  has  thus  transform'd  thy  look 
Straight  his  own  mouth  grew  wider  as  he  spoke ; 
And  now  himself  he  views  with  like  surprise. 
Still  at  his  oar  th'  industrious  Libys  plies ; 
But,  as  he  plies,  each  busy  arm  shrinks  in. 
And  by  degrees  is  fashion'd  to  a  fin. 
Another,  as  he  catches  at  a  cord, 
Misses  his  arms,  and,  tumbling  overboard, 
With  his  broad  fins  and  forky  tail  he  laves 
The  rising  surge,  and  flounces  in  the  waves. 
Thus  all  my  crew  transform'd  around  the  ship, 
Or  dive  below,  or  on  the  surface  leap. 
And  spout  the  waves,  and  wanton  in  the  deep. 
Full  nineteen  sailors  did  the  ship  convey, 
A  shoal  of  nineteen  dolphins  round  her  play. 
I  only  in  my  proper  shape  appear. 
Speechless  with  wonder,  and  half  dead  with  fear, 


112  TRANSLATIONS. 

Till  Bacchus  kindly  bid  me  fear  no  more. 
With  him  I  landed  on  the  Chian  shore, 
And  him  shall  ever  gratefull}^  adore." 

"  This  forging  slave,"  says  Pentheus,  "  would  prevail 
O'er  our  just  fury  by  a  far-fetched  tale : 
Go,  let  him  feel  the  whips,  the  swords,  the  fire, 
And  in  the  tortures  of  the  rack  expire." 
Th'  officious  servants  hurry  him  away, 
And  the  poor  captive  in  a  dungeon  lay. 
But,  whilst  the  whips  and  tortures  are  prepared. 
The  gates  fly  open,  of  themselves  unbarr'd ; 
At  liberty  th'  unfetter'd  captive  stands, 
And  flings  the  loosen'd  shackles  from  his  hands. 

THE    DEATH    OF    PENTHEUS. 

But  Pentheus,  grown  more  furious  than  before, 
Resolv'd  to  send  his  messengers  no  more. 
But  went  himself  to  the  distracted  throng 
Where  high  Cithaeron  echo'd  with  their  song. 
And  as  the  fiery  war-horse  paws  the  ground, 
And  snorts  and  trembles  at  the  trumpet's  sound  ; 
Transported  thus  he  heard  the  frantic  rout, 
And  rav'd  and  madden'd  at  the  distant  shout. 

A  spacious  circuit  on  the  hill  there  stood, 
Level  and  wide,  and  skirted  round  with  wood ; 
Here  the  rash  Pentheus,  with  unhallow'd  eyes, 
The  howling  dames  and  mystic  orgies  spies. 
His  mother  sternly  view'd  him  where  he  stood 
And  kindled  into  madness  as  she  view'd  : 
Her  leafy  jav'lin  at  her  son  she  cast, 
And  cries,  "  The  boar  that  lays  our  country  waste  f 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  113 

The  boar,  my  sisters  !  aim  the  fatal  dart, 
And  strike  the  brindled  monster  to  the  heart." 

Pentheus  astonish'd  heard  the  dismal  sound, 
And  sees  the  yelling  matrons  gath'ring  round  ; 
He  sees,  and  weeps  at  his  approaching  fate, 
And  begs  for  mercy,  and  repents  too  late. 
"  Help,  help  !  my  aunt  Autonoe,"  he  cry'd  ; 
"  Remember  how  your  own  Actaeon  dy'd." 
Deaf  to  his  cries,  the  frantic  matron  crops 
One  stretch'd-out  arm,  the  other  Ino  lops. 
In  vain  does  Pentheus  to  his  mother  sue. 
And  the  raw  bleeding  stumps  presents  to  view : 
His'  mother  howl'd ;  and  heedless  of  his  prayer, 
Her  trembling  hand  she  twisted  in  his  hair, 
"  And  this,"  she  cry'd,  "  shall  be  Agave's  share." 
When  from  the  neck  his  struggling  head  she  tore, 
And  in  her  hands  the  ghastly  visage  bore, 
With  pleasure  all  the  hideous  trunk  survey ; 
Then  pull'd  and  tore  the  mangled  limbs  away, 
As  starting  in  the  pangs  of  death  it  lay. 
Soon  as  the  wood  its  leafy  honours  casts, 
Blown  off  and  scatter'd  by  autumnal  blasts, 
With  such  a  sudden  death  lay  Pentheus  slain, 
And  in  a  thousand  pieces  strow'd  the  plain. 

By  so  distinguishing  a  judgment  aw'd, 
The  Thebans  tremble,  and  confess  the  god. 


114  TRANSLATIONS. 

BOOK     lY. 
THE    STOKT    OF   SALMACIS    AND    HERMAPHKODITU  B.* 

How  Salmacis,  with  weak  enfeebling  streams 
Softens  the  body,  and  unnerves  the  limbs, 
And  what  the  secret  cause  shall  here  be  shown ; 
The  cauBe  is  secret,  but  th'  effect  is  known. 
The  Naiads  nurst  an  infant  heretofore, 
That  Cytherea  once  to  Hermes  bore : 
From  both  th'  illustrious  authors  of  his  race 
The  child  was  nam'd ;  nor  was  it  hard  to  trace 
Both  the  bright  parents  through  the  infant's  face. 
When  fifteen  years,  in  Ida's  cool  retreat, 
The  boy  had  told,  he  left  his  native  seat. 
And  sought  fresh  fountains  in  a  foreign  soil : 
The  pleasure  l^sen'd  the  attending  toil. 
With  eager  steps  the  Lycian  fields  he  crost, 
And  fields  that  border  on  the  Lycian  coast ; 
A  river  here  he  view'd  so  lovely  bright. 
It  shew'd  the  bottom  in  a  fairer  light. 
Nor  kept  a  sand  conceal'd  from  human  sight. 
The  stream  produc'd  nor  slimy  ooze,  nor  weeds, 
Nor  miry  rushes,  nor  the  spiky  reeds ; 
But  dealt  enriching  moisture  all  around 
The  fruitful  banks  with  cheerful  verdure  crown'd. 
And  kept  the  spring  eternal  on  the  ground* 

•  Mr.  Addison  was  very  J^oung  when  he  made  these  translations. 
Still,  one  a  little  wonders  how  his  virgin  muse,  "  nescia  quid  sit  amor'' 
(as  Ovid  says  of  Hermaphroditus)  conld  be  drawn  in  to  attempt  this  sub- 
ject : — but  the  charms  of  the  poetry  prevailed.  He  very  properly  omits, 
or  softens,  the  most  obnoxious  passages  of  his  original ;  and,  after  all, 
seems  half-ashamed  of  what  he  had  done,  as  we  may  conclude  from  his 
writing  no  notes  on  this  story,  which,  being  told  in  Ovid's  best  manner, 
must  have  suggested  to  him  many  fine  ones. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  115 

A  nymph  presides,  nor  practis'd  in  the  chase, 

Nor  skilful  at  the  bow,  nor  at  the  race  ; 

Of  all  the  blue-eyed  daughters  of  the  main. 

The  only  stranger  to  Diana's  train : 

Her  sisters  often,  as  'tis  said,  would  cry 

"  Fy  Salmacis,  what  always  idle  !  fy. 

Or  take  thy  quiver,  or  thy  arrows  seize. 

And  mix  the  toils  of  hunting  with  thy  ease." 

Nor  quiver  she  nor  arrows  e'er  wou'd  seize. 

Nor  mix  the  toils  of  hunting  with  her  ease. 

But  oft  would  bathe  her  in  the  crystal  tide. 

Oft  with  a  comb  her  dewy  locks  divide ; 

Now  in  the  limpid  streams  she  view'd  her  face, 

And  drest  her  image  in  the  floating  glass ; 

On  beds  of  leaves  she  now  repos'd  her  limbs. 

Now  gather'd  flowers  that  grew  about  her  streams  ; 

And  then  by  chance  was  gathering,  as  she  stood 

To  view  the  boy,  and  long'd  for  what  she  view'd. 

Fain  wou'd  she  meet  the  youth  with  hasty  feet, 
She  fain  wou'd  meet  him,  but  refus'd  to  meet 
Before  her  looks  were  set  with  nicest  care, 
And  well  deserv'd  to  be  reputed  fair. 
"  Bright  youth,"  she  cries,  "  whom  all  thy  features  prove 
A  god,  and,  if  a  god,  the  god  of  love ; 
But  if  a  mortal,  blest  thy  nurse's  breast, 
Blest  are  thy  parents,  and  thy  sisters  blest : 
But,  oh,  how  blest !  how  more  than  blest  thy  bride, 
AUy'd  in  bliss,  if  any  yet  ally'd. 
If  so,  let  mine  the  stol'n  enjoyments  be ; 
If  not,  behold  a  willing  bride  in  me." 

The  boy  knew  nought  of  love,  and  touch'd  with  shame, 
He  strove,  and  blusht,  but  still  the  blush  became  : 


116  TRANSLATIONS. 

In  rising  blushes  still  fresh  beauties  rose  ; 
The  sunny  side  of  fruit  such  blushes  shows, 
And  such  the  moon,  when  all  her  silver  white 
Turns  in  eclipses  to  a  ruddy  light. 
The  nymph  still  begs,  if  not  a  nobler  bliss, 
A  cold  salute  at  least,  a  sister's  kiss  : 
And  now  prepares  to  take  the  lovely  boy 
Between  her  arms.     He,  innocently  coy, 
"Replies,  "  Or  leave  me  to  myself  alone. 
You  rude  uncivil  nymph,  or  I'll  begone." 
"  Fair  stranger  then,"  says  she,  "  it  shall  be  so ;  " 
And,  for  she  fear'd  his  threats,  she  feign'd  to  go ; 
But  hid  within  a  coyer t's  neighbouring  green, 
She  kept  him  still  in  sight,  herself  unseen. 
The  boy  now  fancies  all  the  danger  o'er. 
And  innocently  sports  about  the  shore. 
Playful  and  wanton  to  the  stream  he  trips. 
And  dips  his  foot,  and  shivers  as  he  dips. 
The  coolness  pleas'd  him,  and  with  eager  haste 
His  airy  garments  on  the  banks  he  cast ; 
His  godlike  features,  and  his  heavenly  hue, 
And  all  his  beauties  were  expos'd  to  view. 
His  naked  limbs  tlie  nymph  with  rapture  spies, 
While  hotter  passions  in  her  bosom  rise, 
Flush  in  her  cheeks,  and  sparkle  in  her  eyes. 
She  longs,  she  burns  to  clasp  him  in  her  arms. 
And  looks,  and  sighs,  and  kindles  at  his  charms 

Now  all  undrest  upon  the  banks  he  stood, 
And  clapt  his  sides,  and  leapt  into  the  flood  : 
His  lovely  limbs  the  silver  waves  divide. 
His  limbs  appear  more  lovely  through  the  tide ; 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  117 

As  lilies  shut  within  a  crystal  case, 

Receive  a  glossy  lustre  from  the  glass. 

"  He's  mine,  he's  all  my  own,"  the  Naiad  cries, 

And  flings  off  all,  and  after  him  she  flies. 

And  now  she  fastens  on  him  as  he  swims. 

And  holds  him  close,  and  wraps  about  his  limbs. 

The  more  the  boy  resisted,  and  was  coy. 

The  more  she  dipt,  and  kist  the  struggling  boy. 

So  when  the  wriggling  snake  is  snatcht  on  high 

In  eagle's  claws,  and  hisses  in  the  sky, 

Around  the  foe  his  twirling  tail  he  flings, 

And  twists  her  legs,  and  writhes  about  her  wings. 

The  restless  boy  still  obstinately  strove 
To  free  himself,  and  still  refus'd  her  love. 
Amidst  his  limbs  she  kept  her  limbs  entwined, 
"  And  why,  coy  youth,"  she  cries,  "  why  thus  unkind  I 
Oh  may  the  gods  thus  keep  us  ever  join'd ! 
Oh  may  we  never,  never  part  again !" 
So  pray'd  the  nymph,  nor  did  she  pray  in  vain : 
For  now  she  finds  him,  as  his  limbs  she  prest, 
Grow  nearer  still,  and  nearer  to  her  breast ; 
Till,  piercing  each  the  other's  flesh,  they  run 
Together,  and  incorporate  in  one  : 
Last  in  one  face  are  both  their  faces  join'd, 
As  when  the  stock  and  grafted  twig  combin'd 
Shoot  up  the  same,  and  wear  a  common  rind  : 
Both  bodies  in  a  single  body  mix, 
A  single  body  with  a  double  sex. 

The  boy,  thus  lost  in  woman,  now  survey'd 
The  river's  guilty  stream,  and  thus  he  pray'd. 
(He  pray'd,  but  wonder'd  at  his  softer  tone, 
Surpris'd  to  hear  a  voice  but  half  his  own) 


118  TRANSLATIONS. 

You  parent-gods,  whose  heavenly  names  I  bear, 
Hear  your  Hermaphrodite,  and  grant  my  prayer; 
Oh  grant,  that  whomsoe'er  these  streams  contain^ 
If  man  he  enter'd,  he  may  rise  again 
Supple,  unsinew'd,  and  but  half  a  man ! 

The  heavenly  parents  answer'd,  from  on  high, 
Their  two-shap'd  son,  the  double  votary; 
Then  gave  a  secret  virtue  to  the  flood, 
And  ting'd  its  source  to  make  his  wishes  good. 


NOTES 

ON  SOME  OP  THE  FOREGOING  STORIES  IN  OYID'S  METAMORPHOSES. 


ON  THE  STORY  OF  PHAETON,  PAGE  49. 

The  story  of  Phaeton  is  told  with  a  greater  air  of  majesty     J 
and  grandeur  than  any  other  in  all  Ovid.     It  is,  indeed,  the  most 
important  subject  he  treats  of,  except  the  deluge ;  and  I  cannot 
but  believe  that  this  is  the  conflagration  he  hints  at  in  the  first 

book. 

Esse  quoque  in  fatis  reminiscitur  affore  tempus 

>Quo  mare,  quo  tellus,  correptaque  regia  cseli 
Ardeat,  et  mundi  moles  operosa  laboret ; 

(though  the  learned  apply  those  verses  to  the  future  burning  of 
the  world)  for  it  fully  answeiiS  that  description,  if  the 

Caeli  miserere  tui,  circumspica  utrumque 


Furaat  uterque  polus.- 


Fumat  uterque  polus comes  up  to  correptaque  regia  cceli — 

Besides,  it  is  Ovid's  custom  to  prepare  the  reader  for  a  following 
story,  by  giving  such  intimations  of  it  in  a  foregoing  one,  which 
was  more  particularly  necessary  to  be  done  before  he  led  us  into 
so  strange  a  story  as  this  he  is  now  upon. 

P.  49.  1.  7 — For  in  the  portal,  &c.     We  have  here  the  pic- 
ture of  the  universe  drawn  in  little. 

Balaenarumque  prementem 


-^geona  suis  immunia  terga  lacertis. 


120  NOTES. 

Mgeon  makes  a  diverting  figure  in  it. 


-Facies  non  omnibus  una 


Nee  diversa  tamen :  qualem  decet  esse  sororum. 

The  thought  is  very  pretty,  of  giving  Doris  and  her  daughters 
such  a  difference  in  their  looks  as  is  natural  to  different  persons, 
and  yet  such  a  likeness  as  showed  their  affinity. 

Terra  viros,  urbesque  gerit,  sylvasque,  ferasque, 
Fluminaque,  et  nymphas,  et  caetera  nuniina  ruris. 

The  less  important  figures  are  well  huddled  together  in  the  pro- 
miscuous description  at  the  end,  which  very  well  represents  what 
the  painters  call  a  group. 

Circum  caput  omne  micantes 

Deposuit  radios ;  propiusque  accedere  jussit. 

P.  50.  1.  32. — And  fiung  the  hlaze^  &c.  It  gives  us  a  great 
image  of  Phoebus,  that  the  youth  was  forced  to  look  on  him  at  a 
distance,  and  not  able  to  approach  him  till  he  had  lain »  aside  the 
circle  of  rays  that  cast  such  a  glory  about  his  head.  And,  in- 
deed, we  may  every  where  observe  in  Ovid,  that  he  never  fails  of 
a  due  loftiness  in  his  ideas,  tho'  he  wants  it  in  his  words.  And 
this  I  think  infinitely  better  than  to  have  sublime  expressions  and 
mean  thoughts,  which  is  generally  the  true  chararacter  of  Clau- 
dian  and  Statius.     But  this  is  not  considered  by  them  who  run 

*  Had  lain  ande.  He  uses  lain  for  laid  very  improperly,  here,  and 
elsewhere,  on  the  idea,  I  suppose,  that  the  verb  lay  has  two  perfect  par- 
ticiples; just  as  the  verb  load  has  loadid  and  loaden. — But  the  fact  is 
otherwise ;  and  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  double  d  in  the  regular 
participle  "  loaded"  having  an  ill  sound,  the  ear  gradually  introduced  load- 
en,  which  our  nicer  writers,  and  amongst  the  rest,  our  author,  prefers  to 
loaded,  though  the  last  is  not  entirely  disused.  There  was  not  the  same 
reason  for  changing  laid  to  lain  ;  and  the  use  has  never  prevailed :  if  it 
had,  ''had  lain  andu''  is,  by  accident,  better  than  ''had  laid  aside ;"  and 
that  meliority  of  sound  induced,  no  doubt,  our  delicate  writer,  who  was  all 
ear,  to  prefer  "lain,"  in  this  place,  to  laid,  without  reflecting  that  the  es- 
tablished practice  was,  for  good  reason,  against  him. — "Lain"  is,  properly, 
the  perfect  participle  of  lye — laid,  of  lay. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  121 

down  Ovid  in  the  gross,  for  a  low  middle  way  of  writing.  What 
can  be  more  simple  and  unadorned,  than  his  description  of  En- 
celadus  in  the  sixth  book  ? 

Nititur  ille  quidera,  pugnatque  resurgere  saepe, 
Dextra  sed  Ausonio  mauus  est  subjecta  Peloro, 
Lseva  Pacliyne  tibi,  Lilibaeo  crura  premuntur, 
Degravat  -^tna  caput,  sub  qu^  resupinus  arenas 
Ejectat,  fiaramamque  fero  vomit  ore  Typhaeus. 

But  the  image  we  have  here  is  truly  great  and  sublime,  of  a  giant 
vomiting  out  a  tempest  of  fire,  and  heaving  up  all  Sicily,  with 
the  body  of  an  island  upon  his  breast,  and  a  vast  promontory  on 
either  arm. 

There  are  few  books  that  have  had  worse  commentators  on 
them  than  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.  Those  of  the  graver  sort 
have  been  wholly  taken  up  in  the  mythologies,  and  think  they 
have  appeared  very  judicious,  if  they  have  shown  us  out  of  an 
old  author  that  Ovid  is  mistaken  in  a  pedigree,  or  has  turned 
such  a  person  into  a  wolf  that  ought  to  have  been  made  a  tiger. 
Others  have  employed  themselves  on  what  never  entered  into  the 
poet's  thoughts,  in  adapting  a  dull  moral  to  every  story,  and 
making  the  persons  of  his  poems  to  be  only  nicknames  for  such 
virtues  or  vices ;  particularly  the  pious  commentator,  Alexander 
11  OSS,"  has  dived  deeper  into  our  author's  design  than  any  of  the 
rest ;  for  he  discovers  in  him  the  greatest  mysteries  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion,  and  finds  almost  in  every  page  some  typical  repre- 
sentation of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil.  But  if  these 
writers  have  gone  too  deep,  others  have  been  wholly  employed  in 
the  surface,  most  of  them  serving  only  to  help  out  a  school-boy 
in  the  construing  part  ;  or  if  they  go  out  of  their  way,  it  is  only 
to  mark  out  the  griGmce  of  the  author,  as  they  call  them,  which 
are  generally  the  heaviest  pieces  of  a  poet,  distinguished  from 
the  rest  by  Italian  characters.     The  best  of  Ovid's  expositors  is 

VOL.   I. — 6 


122  NOTES. 

he  that  wrote  for  the  Dauphin's  use,  who  has  very  well  shewn  the 
meaning  of  the  author,  but  seldom  reflects  on  his  beauties  or  im- 
perfections ;  for  in  most  places  he  rather  acts  the  geographer 
than  the  critic,  and,  instead  of  pointing  out  the  fineness  of  a  de- 
scription, only  tells  you  in  what  part  of  the  yorld  the  place  is 
situated.  I  shall,  therefore,  only  consider  Ovid  under  the  charac- 
ter of  a  poet,  and  endeavour  to  show  him  impartially,  without  the 
usual  prejudice  of  a  translator ;  which  I  arh  the  more  willing  to 
do,  because  I  believe  such  a  comment  would  give  the  reader  a 
truer  taste  of  poetry  than  a  comment  on  any  other  poet  would 
do  ;  for  in  reflecting  on  the  ancient  poets,  men  think  they  may 
venture  to  praise  all  they  meet  with  in  some,  and  scarce  any  thing 
in  others  ;  but  Ovid  is  confest  to  have  a  mixture  of  both  kinds, 
to  have  something  of  the  best  and  worst  poets,  and  by  conse- 
quence, to  be  the  fairest  subject  for  criticism. 

P.  51.  1.  13.  My  son^  says  he,  &c.  Phoebus 's  speech  is 
very  nobly  ushered  in,  with  the  terque  quaterque  concutiens 
illustre  caput — and  well  represents  the  danger  and  difficulty  of 
the  undertaking ;  but  that  which  is  its  peculiar  beauty,  and 
makes  it  truly  Ovid's,  is  the  representing  them  just  as  a  father 
would  to  his  young  son  ; 

Per  tamen  adversi  gradieris  cornua  taui'i, 
Hsemoniosqiie  arcus,  violentique  ora  leonis, 
Ssevaque  circuitu  eurvantem  braehia  longo 
Scorpion,  atque  aliter  eurvantem  braehia  eanerum. 

for  one  while  he  scares  him  with  bugbears  in  the  way, 

Vasti  quoque  rector  Ol3'mp3, 

Qui  fera  terribili  jaeuletur  fulmina  dextra, 

Non  agat  hos  currua  ;  et  quid  Jove  majus  liabetur? 

Depreeor  hoc  unum  quod  vero  nomine  paena, 

Non  honor  est.     Poenam,  PhaCton,  pro  iiiunerc  poacis. 

and  in  other  places  perfectly  tattles  like  a  father,  which  by  the 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  123 

way  makes  the  length  of  the  speech  very  natural,  and  concludes 
with  all  the  fondness  and  concern  of  a  tender  parent. 

Patrio  pater  esse  metu  probor ;  aspice  vultus 


Ecce  meos :  utmamque  oculos  m  pectore  posses 
Inserere,  et  patrias  intus  deprendere  curas !  <fec. 

P.  53.  1.  13. — A  golden  axle,  &c.  Ovid  has  more  turns 
and  repetitions  in  his  words  than  any  of  the  Latin  poets,  which 
are  always  wonderfully  easy  and  natural  in  him.  The  repetition 
of  aureus,  and  the  transition  to  argenteus,  in  the  description  of 
the  chariot,  gives  these  verses  a  great  sweetness  and  majesty. 

Aureus  axis  erat,  temo  aureus,  aurea  summse 
Curvatura  rotse ;  radiorum  argenteus  ordo. 

P.  54.  1.  7. — Drive  ''em  not  on  directly,  &c.*  Several  have 
endeavoured  to  vindicate  Ovid  against  the  old  objection,  that  he 
mistakes  the  annual  for  the  diurnal  motion  of  the  sun.  The 
Dauphin's  notes  tell  us  that  Ovid  knew  very  well  the  sun  did  not 
pass  through  all  the  signs  he  names  in  one  day,  but  that  he  makes 
Phoebus  mention  them  only  to  frighten  Phaeton  from  the  under- 
taking. But  though  this  may  answer  for  what  Phoebus  says  in 
his  first  speech,  it  cannot  for  what  is  said  in  this,  where  ho  is  ac- 
tually giving  directions  for  his  journey,  and  plainly 

Sectus  in  obliquum  est  lato  curvamine  limes, 
Zonarumque  trium  contentus  fine  polumque 
Effugit  australem,  junctamque  aquilonibus  Arcton, 

describes  the  motion  through  all  the  zodiac. 

Ihid.  1.  23. — And  not  my  chariot,  &c.  Ovid's  verse  is 
Consiliis  non  curribus  utere  nostris.  This  way  of  joining  two 
such  different  ideas  as  chariot  and  counsel  to  the  same  verb  is 
mightily  used  by  Ovid,  but  is  a  very  low  kind  of  wit,  and  has 
always  in  it  a  mixture  of  pun,  because  the  verb  must  be  taken  in 


124  'NOTES. 

a  different  sense  when  it  is  joined  with  one  of  the  things,  from 
what  it  has  in  conjunction  with  the  other.  Thus  in  the  end  of 
this  story  he  tells  you  that  Jupiter  flung  a  thunderbolt  at  Phaeton 
— Pariterque^  animdque,  rotisque  expulit  aurigam^  where  he 
makes  a  forced  piece  of  Latin  (animd  expulit  aurigam)  that  he 
may  couple  the  soul  and  the  wheels  to  the  same  verb. 

P.  55.  1.  17. — TJie  youth  was  in  a  maze^  &c.  It  is  impos- 
sible for  a  man  to  be  drawn  in  a  greater  confusion  than  Phaeton 
is ;  but  the  antithesis  of  light  and  darkness  a  little  flattens  the 
description.  Suntque  oculis  tenebrcB  per  tantuin  lumen 
ahorta. 

Ibid.  1,  20. — Then  the  seven  stars,  &c.  I  wonder  none  of  Ovid's 
commentators  have  taken  notice  of  the  oversight  he  has  commit- 
ted in  this  verse,  where  he  makes  the  Triones  grow  warm  before 
there  was  ever  such  a  sign  in  the  heavens ;  for  he  tells  us  in  this 
very  book,  that  Jupiter  turned  Calisto  into  this  constellation, 
after  he  had  repaired  the  ruins  that  Phaeton  had  made  in  the 
world. 

P.  57.  1.  12. — Athos  and  Tmolus,  &c.  Ovid  has  here,  afEgT"" 
the  way  of  the  old  poets,  given  us  a  catalogue  of  the  mountains 
and  rivers  which  were  burnt.  But,  that  I  might  not  tire  the 
English  reader,  I  have  left  out  some  of  them  that  make  no  figure 
in  the  description,  and  inverted  the  order  of  the  rest  according 
as  the  smoothness  of  my  verse  required. 

P.  58.  1.  5. — ^Twas  then^  they  say,  the  swarthy  Moor,  &c. 
This  is  the  only  Metamorphosis  in  all  this  long  story,  whicli,  con- 
trary to  custom,  is  inserted  in  the  middle  of  it.  The  critics  may 
determine  whether  what  follows  it  be  not  too  great  ai  excursion 
in  him  who  proposes  it  as  his  whole  design  to  let  us  know  the 
changes  of  things.  I  dare  say  that  if  Ovid  had  not  religiously 
observed  the  reports  of  the  ancient  mythologists,  we  should  have 
seen   Phapton   turned  into  some  creature   or   other   that  hates 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  125 

the  light  Oi  the  sun ;  or  perhaps  into  an  eagle  that  still  takes 
pleasure  to  gaze  on  it. 

Ibid.  1,  26. — The  frighted  Nile^  &c.  Ovid  has  made  a 
great  many  pleasant  images  towards  the  latter  end  of  this  story 
His  verses  on  the  Nile — 

Kilus  in  extremum  fugit  perterritus  orbem 
Occuluitque  caput  quod  adhuc  latet :  ostia  septem 
Pulvei-ulenta  vacant,  septem  sine  flumine  valles, 

are  as  noble  as  Virgil  could  have  written  ;  hut  then  he  ought  njt 
to  have  mentioned  the  channel  of  the  sea  afterwards, 

Mare  contrahitur,  siccseque  est  campus  Arenee, 

because  the  thought  is  too  near  the  other.     The  image  of  the 
Cyclades  is  a  very  pretty  one  ; 

Quos  altum  texerat  sequor 

Existunt  montes,  et  sparsas  Cycladas  augent ; 

but  to  tell  us  that  the  swans  grew  warm  in  Cayster, 

Medio  volucres  caluere  Caystro, 

^nd  that  the  Dolphins  durst  not  leap, 

ITec  se  super  sequora  curvi 


f  Toll  ere  consuetas  audent  Delphines  in  auras, 

is  intolerably  trivial  on  so  great  a  subject  as  the  burning  Ji  the 
world. 

P.  59.  1.  17. — The  earth  at  lengthy  &c.  We  have  here  a 
speech  of  the  earth,  which  will  doubtless  seem  very  unnatural  to 
an  English  reader.  It  is,  I  believe,  the  boldest  prosopopceia  of 
any  in  the  old  poets ;  or  if  it  were  never  so  natural,  I  cannol 
but  think  she  speaks  too  much  in  any  reason  for  one  in  her  con 
dition. 


126 


NOTES 


ON   EUROPA'S    RAPE,    PAGE    82, 


P.   83.   1.    17. — Tlie  dignity  of  empire^  &c.     This  story  is 
prettily  told,  and  very  well  brought  in  by  those  two  serious  lines, 

Xon  bene  conveniunt,  nee  in  una  sede  morantur, 
Majestas  et  amor.     Sceptri  gravitate  relicts,  <te., 

without  which  the  whole  fable  would  have  appeared  ver}'  profane. 
P.  84.  1.  25. —  The  frighted  nymph  looks,  &c.     This  con- 
sternation and  behaviour  of  Europa 

Elusam  designat  imagine  tauri 


Europen  :  verum  taurum,  freta  vera  putares. 
Ipsa  videbatur  terras  spectare  relietas, 
Et  comites  clamare  suos,  tactuinque  vereri 
Assilientis  aquie,  timidasque  redueere  plantas, 

is  better  described  in  Arachne's  picture  in  the  sixth  book,  than  / 
it  is  here ;  and  in  the  beginning  of  Tatius  his  Clitophon  and 
Leucippe,  than  in  either  place.  It  is  indeed  usual  among  the 
Latin  poets  (who  had  more  art  and  reflection  than  the  Grecian) 
to  take  hold  of  all  opportunities  to  describe  the  picture  of  any 
place  or  action,  which  they  generally  do  better  than  they  could 
the  place  or  action  itself ;  because  in  the  description  of  a  picture 
you  have  a  double  subject  before  you,  either  to  describe  the 
picture  itself,  or  what  is  represented  in  it. 

ON  THE  STORIES  IN  THE  THIRD  BOOK,  PAGE  85. 

PAB.  I. 

There  is  so  great  a  variety  in  the  arguments  of  the  Meta- . 
morphoses,  that  he  who  would  treat  'em  rightly,  ought  to  be  a 
master  of  all  styles,  and  every  difi'erent  way  of  writing.  Ovid, 
indeed,  shows  himself  most  in  a  familiar  story,  where  the  chief 
grace  is  to  be  easy  and  natural ;  but  wants  neither  strength  of 
thought  nor  expression,  when  he  endeavours  after  it,  in  the  moro 


1:^7 

Bublime  and  manly  subjects  of  his  poem.  In  the  present  fable 
the  serpent  is  terribly  described,  and  his  behaviour  very  well 
imagined,  the  actions  of  both  parties  in  the  encounter  are 
natural,  and  the  language  that  represents  them  more  strong  and 
masculine  than  what  we  usually  meet  with  in  this  poet :  if  there 
be  any  faults  in  the  narration,  they  are  these,  perhaps,  which 
follow. 

P.  87.  1.  12. — Spire  above  spire,  &c.  Ovid,  to  make  his 
serpent  more  terrible,  and  to  raise  the  character  of  his  champion, 
has  given  too  great  a  loose  to  his  imagination,  and  exceeded  all  *' 
the  bounds  of  probability.  He  tells  us,  that  when  he  raised  up  ^ 
but  half  his  body,  he  over-looked  a  tall  forest  of  oaks,  and  that  • 
his  whole  body  was  as  large  as  that  of  the  serpent  in  the  skies. 
None  but  a  madman  would  have  attacked  such  a  monster  as  this 
is  described  to  be ;  nor  can  we  have  any  notion  of  a  mortal's- 
standing  against  him.  Yirgil  is  not  ashamed  of  making  ^neas 
fly  and  tremble  at  the  sight  of  a  far  less  formidable  foe,  where  he 
gives  us  the  description  of  Polyphemus,  in  the  third  book ;  he 
knew  very  well  that  a  monster  was  not  a  proper  enemy  for  his 
hero  to  encounter :  but  we  should  certainly  have  seen  Cadmus 
hewing  down  the  Cyclops,  had  he  fallen  in  Ovid's  way ;  or  if 
Statius's  little  Tydeus  had  been  thrown  on  Sicily,  it  is  probable 
he  would  not  have  spared  one  of  the  whole  brotherhood. 


-Phcenicas,  sive  illi  tela  parabant. 


Sive  fugam,  sive  ipse  timor  proliibebat  utrumque, 
Occupat : 

P.  87.  1,  19. — In  vain  the  Tyrians,  &q.  The  poet  could  not 
keep  up  his  narration  all  along,  in  the  grandeur  and  magnificence 
of  an  heroic  style :  he  has  here  sunk  into  the  flatness  of  prose, 
where  he  tells  us  the  behaviour  of  the  Tyrians  at  the  sight  of  the 
serpent : 


1 28  N  O  'I  E  s 


Tegimen  direpta  leoni 


Pellis  erat;  telura  splendent!  lancea  fen-o, 
Et  jaculum;  teloque  animus  prrcstantior  omni. 

I^i^nd  in  a  few  lines  after  lets  drop  the  majesty  of  his  verse,  for 

the  sake  of  one  of  his  little  turns.     IIo^y  does  he  languish  in  that 

which  seems  a   laboured   line?      Tristia  sanguined,  lamhcntem 

vulnera  lingua.      And  what  pains  does  he  take  to  express  the 

serpent's   breaking  the  force  of  the  stroke,  by  shrinking  back 

from  it  ? 

Sed  leve  vulnus  erat,  quia  se  retraliebat  ah  ictu, 
Lasaque  colla  dabat  retro,  plagamque  sedere 
Cedendo  fecit,  nee  longius  ire  sinebat. 

P.  90.  1.  4. — And  flings  the  future^  &c.  The  description 
of  men  rising  out  of  the  ground  is  as  beautiful  a  passage  as  any 
in  Ovid :  it  strikes  the  imagination  very  strongly  ;  we  see  their 
motion  in  the  first  part  of  it,  and  their  multitude  in  the  iiiessis 
virorum  at  last. 

Ibid.  1.  9. — The  breathing  hardest ^  &c.  Messis  clypeata 
virm-um.  The  beauty  of  these  words  would  have  been  greater, 
\\^^  o\\^  messis  virorum,  been  expressed  without  clypeata;  for 
the  reader's  mind  would  have  been  delighted  with  two  such  differ- 
ent ideas  compounded  together,  but  can  scarce  attend  to  such  a 
complete  image  as  is  made  out  of  all  three. 

This  way  of  mixing  two  different  ideas  together  in  one  image, 
as  it  is  a  great  surprise  to  the  reader,  is  a  great  beauty  in  poetr}', 
if  there  be  sufficient  ground  for  it  in  the  nature  of  the  thing  that 
is  described.  The  Latin  poets  are  very  full  of  it,  especially  the 
worst  of  them,  for  the  more  correct  use  it  but  sparingly,  as,  in- 
deed, the  nature  of  things  will  seldom  afford  a  just  occasion  for 
it.  When  any  thing  we  describe  has  accic  .atally  in  it  some 
quality  that  seems  repugnant  to  its  nature,  or  is  very  extraordi- 
nary and  uncommon  in  things  of  that  species,  such  a  compounded 


6vid's    b/etamorphoses.  129 

image  as  we  are  now  speaking  of  is  made,  by  turning  tliis  quality 
into  an  epithet  of  what  we  describe.  Thus  Claudian,  having  got 
a  hollow  ball  of  crystal,  with  water  in  the  midst  of  it,  for  his  sub- 
ject, takes  the  advantage  of  considering  the  crystal  as  hard,  stony, 
precious  water,  and  the  water  as  soft,  fluid,  imperfect  crystal :  and 
thus  sports  off  above  a  dozen  epigrams,  in  setting  his  words  and 
ideas  at  variance  among  one  another.  He  has  a  great  many 
beauties  of  this  nature  in  him,  but  he  gives  himself  up  so  much 
to  this  way  of  writing,  that  a  man  may  easily  know  where  to  meet 
with  them  when  he  sees  his  subject,  and  often  strains  so  hard  for 
them  that  he  many  times  makes  his  descriptions  bombastic  and 
unnatural.  What  work  would  he  have  made  with  Virgil's  golden 
bough,  had  he  been  to  describe  it  ?  We  should  certainly  have 
seen  the  yellow  bark,  golden  sprouts,  radiant  leaves,  blooming 
metal,  branching  gold,  and  all  the  quarrels  that  could  have  been 
raised  between  words  of  such  different  natures  :  when  we  see  Vir- 
gil contented  with  his  aiiri  frondentis ;  and  what  is  the  same, 
though  much  finer  expressed, — Frondescit  virga  metallo.  This 
composition  of  different  ideas  is  often  met  with  in  a  whole  sen- 
tence, where  circumstances  are  happily  reconciled  that  seem 
wholly  foreign  to  each  other;  and  is  often  found  among  Latin 
poets,  (for  the  Greeks  wanted  art  for  it)  in  their  descriptions  of 
pictures,  images,  dreams,  apparitions,  metamorphoses,  and  the 
like ;  where  they  bring  together  two  such  thwarting  ideas,  by 
making  one  part  of  their  descriptions  relate  to  the  representation, 
and  the  other  to  the  thing  that  is  represented.  Of  this  nature  is 
that  verse,  which,  perhaps,  is  the  wittiest  in  Virgil;  AttoUens 
hu7neris  famamque  et  fata  nepotum^  Mn.  8,  where  he  describes 
^neas  carrying  on  his  shoulders  the  reputation  and  fortunes  of 
his  posterity ;  which,  though  very  odd  and  surprising,  is  plainly 
mad/3  out,  when  we  consider  how  these  disagreeing  ideas  are  re- 
conciled, and  his  posterity's  fame  and  fate  made  portable  by  being 

VOL.   I. — 6* 


130  .NOTES. 

engraven  on  the  shield.  Thus,  when  Ovid  tells  -as  that  Pallas 
tore  in  pieces  Arachne's  work,  where  she  had  embroidered  all  the 
rapes  that  the  gods  had  committed,  he  says — Rupit  cadestia  cri- 
mi?ta.  I  shall  conclude  this  tedious  reflection  with  an  excellent 
stroke  of  this  nature,  out  of  Mr.  Montagu's  Poem  to  the  King ; 
where  he  tells  us  how  the  king  of  France  would  have  been  cele- 
brated by  his  subjects,  if  he  had  ever  gained  such  an  honourable 
wound  as  King  William's  at  the  fight  of  the  Boyne : 

His  bleeding  arm  had  fumisli'd  all  their  rooms, 
And  run  for  ever  purple  in  the  looms. 

FAB.  n. 

P.  91.  1.  1. — IIe7'e  Cadmus  reign' d.  This  is  a  pretty 
solemn  transition  to  the  story  of  Actaeon,  which  is  all  naturally 
told.  The  goddess,  and  her  maids  undressing  her,  are  described 
with  diverting  circumstances.  Actseon's  flight,  confusion,  and 
griefs,  are  passionately  represented ;  but  it  is  a  pity  the  whole 
narration  should  be  so  carelessly  closed  up. 

Ut  abesse  queruntur, 


Nee  capere  oblatae  segnem  spectacula  prsedjB. 
Vellet  abesse  quidem,  sed  adest,  velletque  videre, 
Non  etiam  sentire,  canum  fera  facta  suorum. 

P.  94.-  1.  5. — A  genero24s  pack,  &c.  I  have  not  here 
troubled  myself  to  call  over  Acta6on's  pack  of  dogs  in  rhyme : 
Spot  and  Whitefoot  make  but  a  mean  figure  in  heroic  verse,  and 
the  Greek  names  Ovid  uses  would  sound  a  great  deal  worse.  He 
closes  up  his  own  catalogue  with  a  kind  of  a  jest  on  it,  quosque 
refcrre  mora  est — which,  by  the  way,  is  too  light  and  full  of  hu- 
mour for  the  other  serious  parts  of  this  story. 

This  way  of  inserting  catalogues  of  proper  names  in  their 
poems,  the  Latins  took  from  the   Greeks   but  have  made  them 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  131 

more  pleasant  than  those  they  imitate,  by  adapting  so  many  de- 
lightful characters  to  their  persons'  names  ;  in  which  part  Ovid's 
copiousness  of  invention,  and  great  insight  into  nature,  has  given  "^ 
him  the  precedence  to  all  the  poets  that  ever  came  before  or  after  ) 
him.  The  smoothness  of  our  English  verse  is  too  much  lost  by 
the  repetition  of  proper  names,  which  is  otherwise  very  natural 
and  absolutely  necessary  in  some  cases  ;  as  before  a  battle,  to 
raise  in  our  minds  an  answerable  expectation  of  the  event,  and  a 
lively  idea  of  the  numbers  that  are  engaged.  For  had  Homer 
or  Yirgil  only  told  us  in  two  or  three  lines  before  their  fights, 
that  there  were  forty  thousand  of  each  side,  our  imagination 
could  not  possibly  have  been  so  affected,  as  when  we  see  every 
leader  singled  out,  and  every  regiment  in  a  manner  drawn  up  be- 
fore our  eyes. 

FAB.  m. 

P.  95.  1.  19. — How  Semele,  &c.  This  is  one  of  Ovid's  fin- 
ished stories.  The  transition  to  it  is  proper  and  unforced  :  Juno, 
in  her  two  speeches,  acts  incomparably  well  the  parts  of  a  re- 
senting goddess  and  a  tattling  nurse  :  Jupiter  makes  a  very  ma- 
jestic figure  with  his  thunder  and  lightning,  but  it  is  still  such  a 
one  as  shows  who  drew  it ;  for  who  does  not  plainly  discover 
Ovid's  hand  in  the 

Qua  tamen  usque  potest,  vires  sibi  demere  tentat. 
Nee,  quo  centimanum  dejecerat  igne  Typhsea, 
Nunc  armatur  eo :  nimium  feri talis  in  illo. 

Est  aliud  levius  fulmen,  cui  dextra  Cyclopum 
Saevitiae  flammseque  minus,  minus  addidit  Irae, 
Tela  Secunda  vocant  su/)eri. 

P.  96.  1.  20. — "  ^Tis  well, '  says  she,  &c.  Virgil  has  made  a 
Beroe  of  one  of  his  go(J4essesi  in  the  fifth  JSneid ;  but  if  we  com- 


132  NOTES. 

pare  the  speecli  she  there  makes  with  that  of  her  name-sake  in 
this  story,  we  may  find  the  genius  of  each  poet  discovering  itself 
in  the  language  of  the  nurse :  Virgil's  Iris  could  not  have  spoken 
more  majestically  in  her  own  shape ;  but  Juno  is  so  much  altered 
fiom  herself  in  Ovid,  that  the  goddess  is  quite  lost  in  the  old 
woman. 

FAE.  V.  -   --— ^ 

P.  100.  1.  27. — She  carCt  begiuj  &c.  If  playing  on  words' 
be  excusable  in  any  poem,  it  is  in  this,  where  Echo  is  a  speaker  ; 
but  it  is  so  mean  a  kind  of  wit,  that  if  it  deserves  excuse  it  can 
claim  no  more. 

Mr,  Locke,  in  his  Essay  of  Human  Understanding,  has  given 
us  the  best  account  of  wit,  in  short,  that  can  any  where  be  met 
with.  "  Wit,"  says  he,  "  lies  in  the  assemblage  of  ideas,  and  put- 
ting those  together  with  quickness  and  variety,  wherein  can  be 
found  any  resemblance  or  congruity,  thereby  to  make  up  pleasant 
pictures  and  agreeable  visions  in  the  foncy."  Thus  does  true 
wit,  as  this  incomparable  author  observes,  generally  consist  in 
the  likeness  of  ideas,  and  is  more  or  less  wit,  as  this  likeness  in 
ideas  is  more  surprising  and  unexpected.  But  as  true  wit  is 
nothing  else  but  a  similitude  in  ideas,  so  is  false  wit  the  simili- 
tude in  words,  whether  it  lies  in  the  likeness  of  letters  only,  as  in 
anagram  and  acrostic ;  or  of  syllables,  as  in  doggrel  rhymes  ;  or 

*  If  playing  omvords.  The  translator  would  insinuate,  that  he  omitted 
the  courtship  of  Echo,  in  this  place,  because  it  was  a  play  on  words ;  but  he 
had  another,  and  better  reason,  which  she\vt>,  at  Oii  .o,  the  decency  of  the 
poet,  and  the  unaffected  virine  of  ihe  man;  who,  n  >t  to  make  a  merit  of 
his  'moral  scruples,  [)retends  only  a  critical.  For,  th<;1  this  last  was  nothing 
mo  e  than  a  pretence,  aj^pears  fi-om  tlie  foliuwiiiLf  stoi-y  of  JSarcissus;  where 
Echo  is,  ai?ain,  introduceil  by  Ovid  plat/ing  o)i.  word-^'  but  so  inoffensively, 
that  our  critical  traiislatur  condescends  to  jo/a^  witii  her. 

Afi  youth  !  beloved  in  vain,  Narcissus  cries ; 
Ah  youth  !  beloved  in  vain,  tlie  nymph  replies 
Farexcd,  says  lie  ;  the  parting  sound  scarce  fell 
From  his  faint  lips,  butsho  replied, /areuj«i. 


ovid's    metamorphoses.  133 

whole  words,  as  puns,  echos,  and  the  like.  Besides  these  two 
kinds  of  false  and  true  wit,  there  is  another  of  a  middle  nature, 
that  has  something  of  both  in  it.  When  in  two  ideas  that  have 
some  resemblance  with  each  other,  and  are  both  expressed  by  the 
same  word,  we  make  use  of  the  ambiguity  of  the  word  to  speak 
that  of  one  idea  included  under  it,  which  is  proper  to  the  other. 
Thus,  for  example,  most  languages  have  hit  on  a  word,  which  pro- 
perly signifies  fire,  to  express  love  by,  (and  therefore  we  may  be 
sure  there  is  some  resemblance  in  the  ideas  mankind  have  of 
them ;)  from  hence  the  witty  poets  of  all  languages,  when  they 
have  once  called  love  a  fire,  consider  it  no  longer  as  the  passion, 
but  speak  of  it  under  the  notion  of  a  real  fire,  and,  as  the  turn  of 
wit  requires,  make  the  same  word  in  the  same  sentence  stand  for 
either  of  the  ideas  that  is  annexed  to  it.  When  Ovid's  Apollo 
falls  in  love,  he  burns  with  a  new  flame  ;  when  the  sea-nymphs 
languish  with  this  passion,  they  kindle  in  the  water ;  the  Greek 
epigrammatist  fell  in  love  with  one  that  flung  a  snow-ball  at  him, 
and  therefore  takes  occasion  to  admire  how  fire  could  be  thus  con- 
cealed in  snow.  In  short,  whenever  the  poet  feels  any  thing  in 
this  love  that  resembles  something  in  fire,  he  carries  on  this 
agreement  into  a  kind  of  allegory ;  but  if,  as  in  the  preceding  in- 
stances, he  finds  any  circumstance  in  his  love  contrary  to  the  na- 
ture of  fire,  he  calls  his  love  a  fire,  and  by  joining  this  circum- 
stance to  it,  surprises  his  reader  with  a  seeming  contradiction. 
I  should  not  have  dwelt  so  long  on  this  instance,  had  it  not  been 
so  frequent  in  Ovid,  who  is  the  greatest  admirer  of  this  mixed 
wit  of  all  the  ancients,  as  our  Cowley  is  among  the  moderns. 
Homer,  Virgil,  Horace,  and  the  greatest  poets  scorned  it,  as  in- 
deed it  is  only  fit  for  epigram  and  little  copies  of  verses  ;  one 
would  wonder  therefore  how  so  sublime  a  genius  as  Milton  could 
sometimes  fall  into  it,  in  such  a  work  as  an  epic  poem.  But  we 
must  attribute  it  to  his  humouring  the  vicious  taste  of  the  age  he 


1/ 


134  NOTES. 

lived  in,  and  the  false  judgment  of  our  unlearned  English  readers 
in  general,  who  have  few  of  them  a  relish  of  the  more  masculine 
and  noble  beauties  of  poetry. 

/ 
PAB.  YI.  / 

Ovid  seems  particularly  pleased  with  the  subject  of  this  story, 
but  has  notoriously  fallen  into  a  fault  he  is  often  taxed  with,  of 
not  knowing  when  he  has  said  enough,  by  his  endeavouring  to 
excel.  How  has  he  turned  and  twisted  that  one  thought  of  Nar- 
cissus's being  the  person  beloved,  and  the  lover  too  ? 

Cunctaque  miratur  quibus  est  mirabilis  ipse. 

Qui  probat,  ipse  probatui". 

Dumque  petit  petitur,  pariterque  incendit  et  ardet 
Atque  oculos  idem  qui  decipit  incitat  error. 

Perque  oculos  perit  ipse  sues 

Uror  amore  mei  flammas  moveoque  feroque,  &c. 

But  we  cannot  meet  with  a  better  instance  of  the  extravagance 
and  wantonness  of  Ovid's  fancy,  than  in  that  particular  circum- 
stance at  the  end  of  the  story  of  Narcissus's  gazing  on  his  face 
after  death  in  the  Stygian  waters.  The  design  was  very  bold,  of 
making  a  boy  fall  in  love  with  himself  here  on  earth,  but  to  tor- 
ture him  with  the  same  passion  after  death,  and  not  to  let  his 
ghost  rest  in  quiet,  was  intolerably  cruel  and  uncharitable. 

P.  101.  1.  25. — But  whilst  within,  &c.  Dumque  sitiiii 
sedare  cupit  sitis  altera  crevit.  We  have  here  a  touch  of  that 
mixed  wit  I  have  before  spoken  of,  but  I  think  the  measure  of 
pun  in  it  outweighs  the  true  wit ;  for  if  we  express  the  thought 
in  other  words,  the  turn  is  almost  lost.  This  passage  of  Nar- 
cissus probably  gave  Milton  the  hint  of  applying  it  to  Eve, 
though  I  think  her  surprise  at  the  sight  of  her  own  face  in  the 
water,  far  more  just  and  natural,  than  this  of  Narcissus.  She 
was  a  raw  unexperienced  being,  just  created   and  therefore  might 


.35 

easily  be  subject  to  the  delusion  ;  but  Narcissus  had  been  in  the 
world  sixteen  years,  and  was  brother  and  son  to  the  water-nymphs, 
and  therefore  to  be  supposed  conversant  with  fountains  long  be- 
fore this  fatal  mistake. 

P.  102.  1.  29. — "  You  trees, ''^  says  he,  &c.  Ovid  is  very 
justly  celebrated  for  the  passionate  speeches  of  his  poem.  They  y 
have  generally  abundance  of  nature  in  them,  but  I  leave  it  to 
better  judgment  to  consider  whether  they  are  not  often  too  witty 
and  too  tedious.  The  poet  never  cares  for  smothering  a  good 
thought  that  comes  in  his  way,  and  never  thinks  he  can  draw 
tears  enough  from  his  reader,  by  which  means  our  grief  is  either 
diverted  or  spent  before  we  come  to  his  conclusion ;  for  we  cannot 
at  the  same  time  be  delighted  with  the  wit  of  the  poet,  and  con- 
cerned for  the  person  that,  speaks  it ;  and  a  great  critic  has  ad- 
mirably well  observed,  Lamentationes  debent  esse  breves  et  con- 
cisce,  nam  lachryma  subitb  excrescit,  et  difficile  est  auditor  em 
vel  lector  em  in  summo  animi  affectu  diu  tenere.  Would  any 
one  in  Narcissus's  condition  have  cried  out — Inopein  me  copia 
fecit  ?  Or  can  any  thing  be  more  unnatural  than  to  turn  off 
from  his  sorrows  for  the  sake  of  a  pretty  reflection  ? 

0  utinam  nostro  secedere  corpore  possem ! 

Votnm  in  amante  novum ;  vellem,  quod  amamus,  abesset. 

None,  I  suppose,  can  be  much  grieved  for  one  that  is  so  witty 
on  his  own  afflictions.  But  I  think  we  may  every  where  observe 
in  Ovid  that  he  employs  his  invention  more  than  his  judgment, 
and  speaks  all  the  ingenious  things  that  can  be  said  on  the  sub- 
ject, rather  than  those  which  are  particularly  proper  to  the 
person  and  circumstances  of  the  speaker. 


136  NOTES. 

FAB.  VII. 

P.  106.  1.  9. —  W/ie^  Pentheus  thus.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  spirit  and  fire  in  this  speech  of  Pentheus,  but  I  believe  none 
besides  Ovid  would  have  thought  of  the  transformation  of  the 
serpent's  teeth  for  an  incitement  to  the  Thebans'  courage,  when 
he  desires  them  not  to  degenerate  from  their  great  forefather  the 
dragon,  and\draws  a  parallel  between  the  behaviour  of  them 
both. 

Este,  preeor  memores,  qua  sitis  stirpe  creati, 
lUiusque  animos,  qui  multos  perdidit  unus, 
Sumite  sei-pentis:  pro  fontibus  ille,  lacuqu<^ 
Interiit,  at  vos  pro  famd  vineite  vestrd. 
Ille  dedit  Letho  fortes,  vos  pellite  molles, 
Et  patrium  revocate  Decus. 

FAB.  YIII. 

The  story  of  Acoetes  has  abundance  of  nature  in  all  the  parts 
of  it,  as  well  in  the  description  of  his  own  parentage  and  em- 
ployment, as  in  that  of  the  sailors'  characters  and  manners.  But 
the  short  speeches  scattered  up  and  down  iil  it,  which  make  the 
Latin  very  natural,  cannot  appear  so  well  in  our  language,  which 
is  much  more  stubborn  and  unpliant,  and  therefore  are  but  as  so 
many  rubs  in  the  story,  that  are  still  turning  the  narration  out 
of  its  proper  course.  The  transformation  at  the  latter  end  is 
wonderfully  beautiful. 

FAB.  IX. 

Ovid  has  two  very  good  similies  on  Pentheus,  where  he  com- 
pares him  to  a  river  in  a  former  story,  and  to  a  war-horse  in  the 
present. 


POEMS 


ON 


SEVERAL    OCCASIOiVS. 


I 


[To  Mr.  Dryd^n  :— Tliese  lines,  of  which  Johnson  says,  "  in  his  twenty- 
second  year  he  first  shewed  his  power  of  English  poetry  by  some  verses 
addressed  to  Dry  den,"  hardly  deserve  the  careful  examination  which  Hurd 
has  bestowed  upon  them.  They  were  probably  called  forth  by  the  publi- 
cation of  Tonson's  Third  Miscellany,  which  contained  of  Dryden's,  beside 
a  few  songs,  the  first  book  of  the  Metamorphoses,  with  part  of  the  ninth 
and  sixteenth.  Bryden,  whom  his  politics  and  change  of  religion  had  driv- 
en, in  his  old  age,  to  earn  his  bread  by  translating,  was  gratified  by  the  ap- 
-  plause  of  a  promising  scholar  from  the  University  of  wuich  he  had  writ- 
ten— 

"Oxford  to  him  a  dearer  name  shall  be 
Than  his  own  mother  University : 
Thebes  did  his  green,  unknowing  youth  engage ; 
He  chooses  Athens  in  his  riper  age ; " 

and  an  intercourse  began,  which  if  Macaulay's  conjecture  be  true,  had  a 
decisive  influence  upon  Addison's  fortunes  ;  for  Dryden  presented  him  to 
Congreve,  and  Congreve  to  Montague,  afterwards  Lord  Halifax,  one  of  hia 
earliest  and  most  efiicient  patrons. — G.] 


'       TO    ME.   DKYDEN/ 

How  long,  great  poet,  shall  thy  sacred  lays 

Provoke  our  wonder,  and  transcend  our  praise  ? 

Can  neither  injuries  of  time,  or  age. 

Damp  thy  poetick  heat,  and  quench  thy  rage  ? 

Not  so  thy  Ovid  in  his  exile  wrote,  "^ 

Grief  chill'd  his  breast,  and  check'd  his  rising  thought ; 

Pensive  and  sad,  his  drooping  muse  betrays 

The  Roman  genius  in  its  last  decays. 

Prevailing  warmth  has  still  thy  mind  possest, 
And  second  youth  is  kindled  in  thy  breast ; 
Thou  mak'st  the  beauties  of  the  Romans  known,** 
And  England  boasts  of  riches  not  her  own ; 

a  It  would  not  be  fair  to  criticise  our  author's  poetry,  especially  the 
poetr5r  of  his  younger  days,  very  exactly.  He  was  not  a  poet  born;  or,  he 
had  not  studied,  with  sufficient  care,  the  best  models  of  English  poetry. 
Whatever  the  cause  might  be,  he  had  not  the  command  of  what  Dryden  so 
eminently  possessed,  a  truly  poetic  diction.  His  poetry  is  only  pure  prose, 
put  into  verse.     And 

"  Non  satis  est  puris  versum  perscribere  verbis." 

However,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  point  out  the  principal  defects  of  his  ex- 
pression, that  his  great  example  may  not  be  pleaded  in  excuse  of  them. 

b  Thou  makest,  vide  after,  Thou  teachest.  This  way  of  using  verbs  of 
the  present  and  imperfect  tense,  in  the  second  person  singular,  should  be 
utterly  banished  from  our  poetry.  The  sound  is  intolerable.  Milton  aiiiQ 
others  have  ratlier  chosen  to  violate  grammar  itself,  than  offend  the  ea*. 
thus  unmercifully.  This  libeity  ma}',  perhapsj  be  taken  sometimes,  in  the 
greater  poetry  ;  m  odes  especially.  But  the  better  way  will  generally  be 
to  turn  the  expression  differently :  As,  'Tis  thine  to  teach,  or  in  some  sxich 
way 


/ 

140  POEMS     ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Thy  lines  have  heighten'd  Virgil's  majesty, 
And  Horace  wonders  at  himself  in  thee. 
Thou  teachest  Persius  to  inform  our  isle 
In  smoother  numbers,  and  a  clearer  stile ; 
And  Juvenal,  instructed  in  thy  page, 
Edges  his  satyr,  and  improves  his  rage. 
Thy  copy  casts  a  fairer  light  on  all. 
And  still  outshines  the  bright  original. 

Now  Ovid  boasts  =*  th'  advantage  of  thy  song, 
And  tells  his  story  in  the  British  tongue ; 
Thy  charming  verse,  ^  and  fair  translations,  show 
How  thy  own  laurel  first  began  to  grow ; 
How  wild  Lycaon  chang'd  by  angry  gods, 
And  frighted  at  himself,  ran  howling  through  the  woods. 

0  mayst  thou  still  the  noble  task  prolong,'^ 
Nor  age,  nor  sickness  interrupt  thy  song  : 
Then  may  we  wondering  read,  how  human  limbs 
Have  water'd  kingdoms,  and  dissolv'd  in  streams^ , 
Of  those  rich  fruits  that  on  the  fertile  mould 
Turn'd  yellow  by  degrees,  and  ripen'd  into  gold  : 
How  some  in  feathers,  or  a  ragged  hide. 
Have  liv'd  a  second  life,  and  difierent  natures  try'd. 
Then  will  thy  Ovid,  thus  transform'd,  reveal 
A  nobler  change  than  he  himself  can  tell.« 

Mag.  Coll.  Oxon.  June  2, 1693. 
The  Author's  age  21. 


b 


-tK  advantage  of  thy  song.     An  instance  of  unpoetical  expression. 
Thy  charming  verse  and  fair  translations.      The  epithets  too  general 
and  prosaic. 

.7^   ^Alexandrines,  as  they  are  called,  should  never  be  admitted  into  this 
Vfeind  of  verse.    But  Dryden's  uncoufined  genius  hiid  given  a  sanction  to 
them. 

«*  0  mayst  thou  still,  &c.     See  note  in   the  preceding  page.      It   might 
have  stood  thus:  "Still  may  thy  muse  the  noble  task  prolong." 

^reveal — tell.      Bad  rhymes.      There  are  other  instances  in  this  short 
poem ;   and  in  general  Mr.  Addison  was  a  bad  rhyuiist. 


^  AN    ACCOUNT    OF 

THE    GREATEST    ENGLISH    POETS 

TO  MR.  H.  S.^"  Aprils,  1694. 

Since,  dearest  Harry, ^  you  will  needs  request 

A  short  account  of  all  the  muse-possest,  ! 

That,  down  from  Chaucer's  days  to  Dryden's  times, 

Have  spent  their  noble  rage  in  British  rhymes  ; 

Without  more  preface,  writ  in  formal  length. 

To  speak  the  undertaker's  want  of  strength, 

*  The  Sacheverell  to  whom  these  lines  were  addressed,  was,  accord- 
ing to  one  account,  a  Manxman,  who  died  young,  leaving  a  history 
of  the  Isle  of  Man.  He  left  his  papers  to  Addison,  and  among 
them  the  plan  of  a  tragedy  on  the  death  of  Socrates.  In  this  case, 
Johnson's  sarcasm  is  at  fault,  though  it  is  somewhat  strange  that 
with  the  voucher  for  this  fact  among  his  own  papers,  he  should  not  have 
corrected  his  mistake. — [Vide  note  to  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison.]  But  as  is 
more  generally  believed,  he  was  the  celebrated  Dr.  Sacheverell,  whose  trial 
excited  so  much  attention ;  and  Addison  is  said,  on  the  authority  of  Dr. 
Young,  to  have  been  in  love  with  a  sister  of  his. 

This  piece  was  first  published  in  a  miscellany,  and  never  reprinted  by 
Addison  himself,  who  probably  saw  reason,  in  after  years,  to  change  some 
of  his  opinions.  Johnson  says  he  never  printed  it.  The  omission  of  Shak- 
speare's  name  has  been  often  noticed.  The  finest  passage  is  the  lines  on 
Milton.— G. 

•  Henry  Sacheverell,  whose  story  is  well  known.  Yet  with  all  his  fol- 
lies, some  respect  may  seem  due  to  the  memory  of  a  man,  who  had  merit  in 
his  youth,  as  appears  from  a  ]iaper  of  verses  under  his  name,  in  Dryden's 
Miscellanies;  and  who  lived  in  the  early  friendship  of  Mr.  Addison. 

^  The  introductory  and  concluding  lines  of  this  poem  are  a  bad  imita- 
tion of  Horace's  manner — Sermoni  propiora.  In  the  rest,  the  poetry  is  bet- 
ter than  the  criticism,  which  is  right  or  wrong,  as  it  chances ;  being  echoed 
from  the  common  voice. 


142        POEMS   ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS. 

Ill  try  to  make  their  several  beauties  known, 
And  show  their  verses  worth,  tho'  not  my  own. 

Long  had  our  dull  forefathers  slept  supine, 
Nor  felt  the  raptures  of  the  tuneful  Nine  ; 
'Till  Chaucer  first,  a  merry  bard,  arose, 
V  And  many  a  story  told  in  rhyme  and  prose. 

But  age  has  rusted  what  the  poet  writ. 
Worn  out  his  language,  and  obscur'd  his  wit : 
In  vain  he  jests  in  his  unpolish'd  strain, 
And  tries  to  make  his  readers  laugh  in  vain. 

Old  Spenser,'  next,  warm'd  with  poetic  rage, 
In  ancient  tales  amus'd  a  barb'rous  age ; 
An  age  that  yet  uncultivate  and  rude, 
Where'er  the  poet's  fancy  led,  pursu'd 
Through  pathless  fields,  and  unfrequented  floods. 
To  dens  of  dragons,  and  enchanted  woods. 
But  now  the  mystic  tale,  that  pleas'd  of  yore, 
»     Can  charm  an  understanding  age  no  more  ; 
'  The  long-spun  allegories  fulsome  grow, 
While  the  dull  moral  lies  too  plain  below. 
We  view  well-pleas'd  at  distance  all  the  sights 
Of  arms  and  palfries,  battles,  fields,  and  fights, 
And  damsels  in  distress,  and  courteous  knights. 
But  when  we  look  too  near,  the  shades  decay, 
And  all  the  pleasing  landscape  fades  away. 

Great  Cowley  then^  (a  mighty  genius)  wrote, 
O'er-run  with  wit,  and  lavish  of  his  thought  : 

*  Old  Spenser.  Addison  is  said  to  have  confessed  that  when  he  wrote 
this  judgment,  he  had  never  road  Spenser.  In  the  Spectator  he  puts 
Spenser  "  in  the  same  class  with  Milton." — ^G. 

"  Great  Cowley  then.  But  if  he  had  not  read  Spenser,  he  evidently 
had  i-ead  Cowley,  whose  ]>rose  he  must  have  admired,  if  for  nothing  else, 
for  its  freedom  from  the  faults  which  are  here  so  justly  condemned  in  his 


THE      GREATEST      ENGLISH      POETS.  143 

His  turns  too  closely  on  the  reader  press  : 

He  more  had  pleas'd  us,  had  he  pleas'd  us  less. 

One  glittering  thought  no  sooner  strikes  our  eyes 

With  silent  wonder,  but  new  wonders  rise, 

As  in  the  milky-way  a  shining  white 

O'er-flows  the  heav'ns  with  one  continu'd  light ; 

That  not  a  single  star  can  shew  his  rays, 

Whilst  jointly  all  promote  the  common  blaze. 

Pardon,  great  poet,  that  I  dare  to  name 

Th'  unnumber'd  beautieS  of  thy  verse  with  blame,; 

Thy  fault  is  only  wit  in  its  excess,  \^' 

But  wit  like  thine  in  any  shape  will  please. 

What  muse  but  thine  can  equal  hints  inspire, 

And  fit  the  deep-mouth'd  Pindar  to  thy  lyre :  * 

Pindar,  whom  others  in  a  labour'd  strain, . 

And  forc'd  expression  imitate  in  vain  ? 

Well-pleas'd  in  thee  he  soars  with  new  delight, 

And  plays  in  more  unbounded  verse,  and  takes  a  nobler  flight. 

Blest  man !  whose  spotless  life  and  charming  lays 
Employ'd  the  tuneful  prelate  in  thy  praise  : 
Blest  man  !  who  now  shalt  be  for  ever  known 
In  Sprat's  successful  labours  and  thy  own. 

But  Milton,  next,  with  high  and  haughty  stalks, ' 
Unfetter'd  in  m?ijestick  numbers  walks  ; 
No  vulgar  hero  can  his  muse  ingage  ; 
Nor  earth's  wide  scene  confine  his  hallow'd  rage. 
See  !  see,  he  upward  springs,  and  tow'ring  high 
Spurns  the  dull  province  of  mortality, 

verse.     Parts  of  bis  criticism  are  admirable ;  but  the  unfortunate  line — 
"  lie  more  had  pleased  us,"  has  bepn  severely  ridicaled. — G. 

•  Cowley  had  great  merit,  but  nature  had  formed  him  to  manage  Ana? 
or  eon's  lute,  and  not  Pindar's  Ivre 


144        POEMS  ON   SEVERAL   UCCASIONS, 

Shakes  heaven's  eternal  throne  with  dire  alarms. 


' —  And  sets  the  Almighty  thunderer  in  arms. 

What-e'er  his  pen  describes  I  more  than  see, 

Whilst  ev'ry  verse  arrayed  in  majesty, 

Bold,  and  sublime,  my  whole  attention  draws. 

And  seems  above  the  critick's  nicer  laws.' 

How  are  you  struck  with  terror  and  delight, 
"~~  When  angel  with  arch-angel  copes  in  fight ! 

.  When  great  Messiah's  out-spread  banner  shines, 

How  does  the  chariot  rattle  in  his  lines  ! 

What  sounds  of  brazen  wheels,  what  thunder,  scare, 

And  stun  the  reader  with  the  din  of  war  ! 

With  fear  my  spirits  and  my  blood  retire. 

To  see  the  seraphs  sunk  in  clouds  of  fii-e ; 

But  when,  with  eager  steps,  from  hence  I  rise, 

And  view  the  first  gay  scenes  of  Paradise  ; 

What  tongue,  what  words  of  rapture  can  express 

A  vision  so  profuse  of  pleasantness.  ^ 

Oh  had  the  poet  ne'er  profan'd  his  pen, 

To  varnish  o'er  the  guilt  of  faithless  men  ; 

His  other  works  might  have  deserv'd  applause  ! 

But  now  the  language  can't  support  the  cause ; 

While  the  clean  current,  tho'  serene  and  bright,'' 

Betrays  a  bottom  odious  to  the  sight. 

■  1  wonder  what  these  laws  could  be.  Nobody  understood  the  critic's 
nicest  laws,  better  than  Milton,  or  observed  them  with  more  respect.  The 
observation  might  be  true  of  Shakspeare ;  but,  by  illhap,  we  do  not  so 
much  as  find  his  name  in  this  account  of  English  poets. 

•»  A  vision  so  profuse  of  pleasantness.  A  prettily  turned  line.  The  ex- 
pression (originally  Milton's,  P.  L.  iv.  243.  viii.  286)  pleased  our  poet  so 
much,  that  we  have  it  again  in  the  letter  from  Italy — proftise  of  bliss,  and 
elsewhere. 

*>  Serene  and  bright.  Tliis  is  a  strange  description  of  Milton's  language, 
if  he  means  the  language  of  his  prose  works.  Tlie  paneg^'ric  seems  made 
at  random. 


THE  GREATEST   ENGLISH   POETS.        145 

But  now  my  muse  a  softer  strain  rehearse, 
Turn  every  line  with  art,  and  smooth  thy  verse ; 
The  courtly  Waller  next  commands  thy  lays  :  ^^ 

Muse  tune  thy  verse,  with  art,  to  Waller's  praise. 
While  tender  airs  and  lovely  dames  inspire 
Soft  melting  thoughts,  and  propagate  desire  , 
So  long  shall  Waller's  strains  our  passions  move, 
And  Sacharissa's  beauties  kindle  love. 
Thy  verse,  harmonious  bard,  and  flatt'ring  song. 
Can  make  the  vanquish'd  great,  the  coward  strong, 
Thy  verse  can  show  '  ev'n  Cromwell's  innocence. 
And  compliment  the  storms  that  bore  him  hence. 
Oh  had  thy  muse  not  come  an  age  too  soon, 
But  seen  great  Nassau  on  the  British  throne  ! 
How  had  his  triumphs  glitter'd  in  thy  page. 
And  warm'd  thee  to  a  more  exalted  rage ! 
What  scenes  of  death  and  horror  had  we  view'd. 
And  how  had  Boyne's  wide  current  reek'd  in  blood  ! 
Or,  if  Maria's  charms  thou  would'st  rehearse. 
In  smoother  numbers  and  a  softer  verse  ; 
Thy  pen  had  well  describ'd  her  graceful  air, 
And  Gloriana  wou'd  have  seem'd  more  fair. 

Nor  must  Boscommon  pass  neglected  by,        .;s,  - 
That  makes  ev'n  rules  a  noble  poetry  : 
Bules,  whose  deep  sense,  and  heav'nly  numbers  show  \ 
The  best  of  critlcks,  and  of  poets  too. 
Nor,  Denham,  must  we  e'er  forget  thy  strains,  .^^^ 

While  Cooper's  Hill  commands  the  neighb'ring  plains. 

*  rill/  verse  can  shoi'\  Of  tins  an<l  the  four  next  lines,  Johnson  says, — 
"  AVi  at  is  this  but  to  say,  that  he  who  would  compliment  Cromwell  had 
been  the  proper  poet  for  King  William  ?  " — G. 

VOL.  1. — 7 


146       POEMS  ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS. 

But  see  where  artful  Dryden  next  appears 
Grown  old  in  rhyme,  but  charming  ev'n  in  years. 
Great  Dryden  next,  whose  tuneful  muse  affords 
The  sweetest  numbers,  and  the  fittest  words. 
Whether  in  comick  sounds  or  tragick  airs  * 
She  forms  her  voice,  she  moves  our  smiles  or  tears. 
If  satire  or  heroic  strains  she  wi'ites. 
Her  hero  pleases,  and  her  satire  bites. 
From  her  no  harsh  unartful  numbers  fall, 
She  wears  all  dresses,  and  she  charms  in  all. 
How  might  we  fear  our  English  poetry, 
That  long  has  flourish'd,  shou'd  decay  with  thee ; 
Did  not  the  muses  other  hope  appear, 
Harmonious  Congreve,  and  forbid  our  fear : 
Congreve  !  whose  fancy's  unexhausted  store 
Has  given  already  much,  and  promis'd  more. 
Congreve  shall  still  ^  preserve  thy  fame  alive, 
And  Dryden's  muse  shall  in  his  friend  survive. 

I'm  tir'd  with  rhyming,  and  would  fain  give  o'er, 
But  justice  still  demands  one  labour  more : 
The  noble  Montague  ^  remains  unnam'd, 
For  wit,  for  humour,  and  for  judgment  fam'd ; 
To  Dorset  he  directs  his  artful  muse. 
In  numbers  such  as  Dorset's  self  might  use. 

-  The  noble  Montague.  It  is  of  Montague  that  Pope  says,-  ''he  wm 
fed  with  dedications;''  and  Tickell,  that  he  rewarded  them  alL—  Jr. 

■  Whether  in  comic  sounds  or  tragick  airs.  A  writer  in  fr-shion,  lik* 
the  stoical  wise  man,  is  every  thing  he  has  a  mind  to  be.  Dryd.n's  come- 
dies are  very  indifferent,  and  his  tragedies  still  woi'se. 

''  Congreve  shall  still.  Anotlier  poet  in  fashion :  but  it  is  not  safe  to 
prophecy  of  such.  All  he  had  of  Dryden's  muse  was  only  his  quaint  and 
ill-applied  wit. 


THE  GREATEST   ENGLISH   POETS.        14T 

How  negligently  graceful  he  unreins 

His  verse,  and  writes  in  loose  familiar  strains ; 

How  Nassau's  godlike  acts  adorn  his  lines. 

And  all  the  hero  in  full  glory  shines. 

We  see  his  army  set  in  just  array, 

And  Boyne's  dy'd  waves  run  purple  to  the  sea. 

Nor  Simois  choak'd  with  men,  and  arms,  and  blood ; 

Nor  rapid  Xanthus'  celebrated  flood. 

Shall  longer  be  the  poet's  highest  themes, 

Tho'  gods  and  heroes  fought  promiscuous  in  their  streams. 

But  now,  to  Nassau's  secret  councils  rais'd, 

He  aids  the  hero,  whom  before  he  prais'd. 

I've  done  at  length ;  and  now,  dear  friend^  receive 
The  last  poor  present  that  my  muse  can  give.  ""'* 

I  leave  the  arts  of  poetry  and  verse  ^ 
To  them  that  practise  'em  with  more  success. 
Of  greater  truths  ^  I'll  now  prepare  to  tell, 
And  so  at  once,  dear  friend  and  muse,  farewell. 

*  /  leave  the  arts,  &c.  These  lines  have  found  a  place  in  the  twelfth 
chapter  of  **  The  art  of  sinking  in  poetry."  "  Let  verses  run  in  this  man- 
ner, just  to  be  a  vehicle  to  the  words.  (I  take  them  from  my  last  cited 
author,  who,  though  otherwise  by  no  means  of  our  rank,  seemed,  once  in 
his  life,  to  have  a  mind  to  be  simple,  (fee.)  " — G-. 

•  0/  greater  truths.     Addison,  at  this  time,  thoxight  of  taking  orders. 


LINES    TO    THE    KING. 

PRESENTED  TO  THE  LORD  KEEPER. 

TO     THE 
EIGHT  HON.  SIR  JOHN  SOMERS,  LORD  KEEPER  OF  THE  GREAT  SEAL,  i 

If  yet  your  thouglits  are  loose  from  state  affairs," 
Nor  feel  the  burden  of  a  kingdom's  cares, 
If  yet  your  time  and  actions  are  your  own, 
Keceive  the  present  of  a  muse  unknown  : 

'  To  the  Right  Honorable,  d;c.,  Sir  John  Somers : — Somers,  equally  emi- 
nent as  a  constitutional  lawyer,  a  statesman,  and  a  patron  of  letters,  was  born 
at  Worcester  in  1652.  He  studied  at  Oxford,  soon  distinguished  himself 
at  the  bar,  made  his  first  appearance  in  political  life  as  an  opponent  of  the 
policy  of  Charles  IL,  established  his  legal  reputation  by  his  five  minutes* 
plea  in  defence  of  the  seven  bishops,  sat  for  Worcester  in  the  convention 
of  parliament,  was  one  of  the  managers  for  the  Commons  in  the  conference 
with  the  lords  on  the  word  abdicate,  was  knighted  and  made  Solicitor- 
general  in  1689,  Attorney-general  in  1692,  Lord  Keeper  in  1693,  and  Lord 
High  Chancellor  in  1695,  and  Peer,  by  the  title  of  Lord  Somers,  Baron 
Evesham.  After  William's  death,  he  retired  from  public  life  to  letters, 
which  he  had  always  loved,  and,  iu  this  capacity,  was  chosen  Pi*esident  of 
the  Royal  Society.  In  1706  he  drew  up  a  plan  of  union  for  England  and 
Scotland,  and  was  appointed  one  of  the  Commissioners  for  carrying  it  into 
effect. 

In  1*708  he  returned  to  public  life  as  President  of  the  Council,  was  dis- 
missed in  1710,  and  died  in  1716  of  an  apo])lectic  fit,  at  the  age  of  64.  As 
a  patron  of  letters,  his  name  is  closely  associated  with  that  of  Addison, 
like  whom  he  contributed  to  call  attention  to  the  neglected  beauties  of  the 
Paradise  Lost.  He  translated  some  of  Ovid's  epistles,  Plutarch's  Alcibi- 
adcs,  and  wrote  several  tracts,  one  of  which,  called  "The  judgment  of 
whole  kingdoms  and  nations  concerning  the  rights,  powers,  and  preroga- 
tives  of  kings,  and   the  rights,  privileges,  and  properties  of  tlie  people, 

*  This  short  address  to  his  patron,  is  polite  and  proper,  but,  like  the 
poem,  which  it  introduces,  very  prosaic. 


LINES     TO      THE      KINO.  149 

A  muse  that  in  advent'rous  numbers  sings 
The  rout  of  armies,  and  the  fall  of  kings, 
Britain  advanc'd,  and  Europe's   peace  restor'd, 
By  Somers'  counsels,  and  by  Nassau's  sword. 

To  you,  my  lord,  these  daring  thoughts  belong, 
Who  help'd  to  raise  the  subject  of  my  song ; 
To  you  the  hero  of  my  verse  reveals 
His  great  designs,  to  you  in  council  tells 
His  inmost  thoughts,  determining  the  doom 
Of  towns  unstorm'd,  and  battles  yet  to  come. 
And  well  could  you,  in  your  immortal  strains, 
Describe  his  conduct,  and  reward  his  pains: 
But  since  the  state  has  all  your  cares  engrost, 
And  poetry  in  higher  thoughts  is  lost. 
Attend  to  what  a  lesser  muse  ^  indites, 
Pardon  her  faults  and  countenance  her  flights. 

ehewing,"  <fee.,  &c.,  was  reprinted  during  the  discussions  which  preceded 
our  own  revolution,  with  the  following  date: — 

Newport,  Rhode  Island :  reprinted  and  sold  by  Solomon  Southwick,  in 
^ueen-street,  1774. 

Somers  left  also  a  large  collection  of  scarce  tracts,  from  which  a  selec- 
tion was  published,  in  14  vols.,  and  in  1809-1812,  a  new  edition,  in  12 
vols.  4to.  edited  by  Sir  "Walter  Scott. 

It  is  to  him  that  Swift,  in  a  letter  to  BoHngbroke,  attributes  "the 
regularity  of  an  alderman  or  a  gentleman  usher;"  and  Evelyn  says  of 
him,  in  the  3d  vol.  of  his  memoirs,  "It  is  certain  that  this  chancellor  was  a 
most  excellent  lawyer,  very  learned  in  all  polite  literature,  a  superior  pen, 
master  of  a  handsome  style,  and  of  easy  conversation :  but  he  is  said  to 
make  too  much  haste  to  be  rich,  as  his  predecessor,  and  most  in  place  in 
this  age  did,  to  a  more  prodigious  excess  than  was  ever  known." 

Addison,  who  was  not  yet  known  to  Somers,  was  invited  to  wait  upon 
him ;  and  thus  his  second  verses,  like  the  first,  opened  the  way  to  an  im- 
portant political  as  well  as  literary  acquaintance. — G.] 

*  Lesser  muse.  Little  has  two  comparatives,  less  and  lesser.  Use 
leaves  us  at  libery  to  employ  either.  The  sound  will  direct  us  when  to 
prefer  the  one  to  the  other.     As  here,  a  leaser  muse,  is  clearly  better  than 


150  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

On  you,  my  lord,  with  anxious  fear  I  wait, 
And  from  your  judgment  must  expect  my  fate, 
Who,  free  from  vulgar  passions,  are  above 
Degrading  envy,  or  misguided  love ; 
If  you,  well  pleas'd,  shall  smile  upon  my  lays, 
Secure  of  fame,  my  voice  I'll  boldly  raise, 
For  next  to  what  you  write,  is  what  you  praise. 


TO  THE  KING.i 

When  now  the  business  of  the  field  is  o'er, 
The  trumpets  sleep,  and  cannons  cease  to  roar, 
When  ev'ry  dismal  echo  is  decay'd. 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  laid ; 
Attend,  auspicious  prince,  and  let  the  muse 
In  humble  accents  milder  thoughts  infuse. 

Others,  in  bold  prophetick  numbers  skill'd, 
Set  thee  in  arms,  and  led  thee  to  the  field. 
My  muse  expecting  on  the  British  strand 
Waits  thy  return,  and  welcomes  thee  to  land  : 
She  oft  has  seen  thee  pressing  on  the  foe. 
When  Europe  was  concern'd  in  ev'ry  blow ; 
But  durst  not  in  heroick  strains  rejoice  ; 
The  trumpets,  drums,  and  cannons  drown'd  her  voice  . 

*  This  poem  was  addressed  to  William  on  his  return  from  the  cam- 
paign of  1695  in  Flanders,  against  the  French  army  under  Villeroy.  The 
great  event  of  the  campaign  was  the  taking  of  Naraur  on  the  4th  of 
August. — G. 

a  less  muse.  But,  in  general,  it  may  be  a  good  rule  "to  join  less  with  a 
singular  noun,  and  lesser  with  a  plural:  " — as,  wlien  we  say,  a  less  difficulty, 
and,  lesser  difficulties.  The  reason  is,  that  few  singtilar  nouns  terminate 
in  s,  and  most  plural  nouns  do. 

Worser,  the  second  comparative  of  had,  has  not  the  same  authority  to 
plead,  as  lesser,  and  is  not,  I  think,  of  equal  use. — Our  granmiarians  do 
not  enough  attend  to  the  influence,  which  the  ear  has  in  modelling  a  lan- 
guage. 


LINES      TO      THE      KING.  '  151 

She  saw  the  Bojne  *  run  thick  with  human  gore, 

And  floating  corps  lye  beating  on  the  shore : 

She  saw  thee  climb  the  banks,  but  try'd  in  vain 

To  trace  her  hero  through  the  dusty  plain, 

When  through  the  thick  embattl'd  lines  he  broke. 

Now  plung'd  amidst  the  foes,  now  lost  in  clouds  of  smoke. 

0  that  some  muse,  renown'd  for  lofty  verse. 
In  daring  numbers  wou'd  thy  toils  rehearse  ! 
Draw  thee  belov'd  in  peace,  and  fear'd  in  wars, 
Inur'd  to  noon-day  sweats,^  and  mid-night  cares  !  ^ 

But  still  the  god-like  man,  by  some  hard  fate, 
Receives  the  glory  of  his  toils  too  late ; 
Too  late  the  verse  the  mighty  act  succeeds. 
One  age  the  hero,  one  the  poet  breeds. 

A  thousanci  years  in  full  succession  ran. 
Ere  Virgil  rais'd  his  voice,  and  sung  the  man       v  \ 
Who,  driv'n  by  stress  of  fate,  such  dangers  bore 
On  stormy  seas,  and  a  disastrous  shore. 
Before  he  settled  in  the  promis'd  earth, 
And  gave  the  empire  of  the  world  its  birth. 

Troy  long  had  found  the  Grecians  bold  and  fierce. 
Ere  Homer  muster'd  up  their  troops  in  verse ; 
Long  had  Achilles  quell'd  the  Trojans'  lust, 
And  laid  the  labour  of  the  gods  in  dust, 
Before  the  tow 'ring  muse  began  her  flight. 
And  drew  the  hero  raging  in  the  fight, 

*  She  saw  the  Boyne.  The  usual  poetic  exaggeration.  This  battle, 
which  on  the  11th  July,  1690,  decided  the  fate  of  James  IT.,  cost  hira  little 
more  than   1500  men.     William  was  slightly  wounded. — G. 

»  He  should  have  said  heats,  as  he  does  say  in  the  Campaign,  The  mid- 
night watches  and  the  noon-day  heats. 


152        rOEMS  ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIOK8. 

Engag'd  in  tented  fields,  and  rolling  floods, 
Or  slaughtVing  mortals,  or  a  match  for  gods. 

And  here,  perhaps,  by  fate's  unerring  doom, 
Some  mighty  bard  lies  hid  in  years  to  come, 
That  shall  in  William's  god-like  acts  engage, 
And  with  his  battels,  warm  a  future  age. 
Hibernian  fields  shall  here  thy  conquests  show, 
And  Boyn  be  sung,  when  it  has  ceas'd  to  flow ; 
Here  Gallick  labours  shall  advance  thy  fame. 
And  here  Seneffe^  shall  wear  another  name. 
Our  late  posterity,  with  secret  dread. 
Shall  view  thy  battels,  and  with  pleasure  read 
How,  in  the  bloody  field,  too  near  advanc'd, 
The  guiltless  bullet  on  thy  shoulder  glauc'd.'^ 

The  race  of  Nassaus  was  by  heav'n  design'd 
To  curb  the  proud  oppressors  of  mankind. 
To  bind  the  tyrants  of  the  earth  with  laws, 
And  fight  in  ev'ry  injur'd  nation's  cause, 
The  world's  great  patriots  ;  they  for  justice  call, 
And  as  they  favour,  kingdoms  rise  or  fall. 
Our  British  youth,  unus'd  to  rough  alarms, 
Careless  of  fame,  and  negligent  of  arms, 

*  And  here  Senefe  shall  wear  another  name.  Battle  of  Sencft'  in  Flan- 
ders, Aug  11,  1674.  The  last  battle  of  the  great  Condo — who  fouglit 
three  .divisions  of  the  enemy  in  succession.  The  last  combat  lasted  till  mid- 
niglit,  and  between  both  armies  26,000  men  were  killed  without  a  decisive 
victory  on  either  side.  Condd  was  severely  criticized  for  sacrificing  so 
many  men,  and  the  lover  of  rhetorical  artifice  will  admire  the  skill  ^xnth 
which  B.)ssuet  in  his  celebrated  funeral  oration,  esca])e8  tlie  perilous  point 
of  his  subject,  by  connecting  his  mention  of  Seueff  with  a  personal  anecdote 
of  the  Prince  and  his  son. — G. 

•  The  guiltless  bullet,  &c.  Delicately,  and,  at  the  same  time,  nol)ly  ox- 
pressed.  Our  great  preacher,  Tillotson,  was  not  so  hnpp)}^  when  lie  spoke 
of  the  liing's  shoulder  as  being  kindly  kissed  by  this  bullet. 


LINES      TO      THE     KING.  153 

Had  long  forgot  to  meditate  the  foe, 
And  heard  unwarm'd  the  martial  trumpet  blow ; 
But  now,  inspired  by  thee,  with  fresh  delight. 
Their  swords  they  brandish,  and  require  the  fight, 
Renew  their  ancient  conquests  on  the  main, 
And  act  their  fathers'  triumphs  o'er  again ; 
Fir'd  when  they  hear  how  Agincourt  was  strow'd 
With  G-allic  corps,  and  Cressi  swam  in  blood, 
With  eager  warmth  they  fight,  ambitious  all 
Who  first  shall  storm  the  breach,  or  mount  the  wall. 
•       In  vain  the  thronging  enemy  by  force 

Would  clear  the  ramparts,  and  repel  their  course ; 
They  break  through  all,  for  William  leads  the  way, 
Where  fires  rage  most,  and  loudest  engines  play. 
Namure's  late  terrors^  and  destruction  show, 
What  William,  warm'd  with  just  revenge,  can  do. 
Where  once  a  thousand  turrets  rais'd  on  high 
Their  gilded  spires,  and  glitter'd  in  the  sky, 
An  undistinguish'd  heap  of  dust  is  found, 
And  all  the  pile  lies  smoking  on  the  ground. 

His  toils  for  no  ignoble  ends  design'd. 
Promote  the  common  welfare  of  mankind ; 
No  wild  ambition  moves,  but  Europe's  fears, 
The  cries  of  orphans,  and  the  widow's  tears ; 
Opprest  religion  gives  the  first  alarms,  ^ 
And  injur'd  justice  sets  him  in  his  arms  ; 
His  conquests  freedom  to  the  world  afi'ord. 
And  nations  bless  the  labors  of  his  sword. 

^  Namure^s  late  terrors,  &c.  The  town  of  Namur  had  been  taken  by 
Louis  XIV.  in  person,  June,  1692,  in  eight  days,  and  the  citadel  in  twenty- 
two.  William  retook  them  in  1695 — the  town  after  thirty-five  days'  siege, 
the  citadel  sixty-eight. — G, 

VOL.  I. — 7* 


154  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Thus  when  the  forming  muse  would  copy  forth 
A  perfect  pattern  of  heroick  worth, 
She  sets  a  man  triumphant  in  the  field, 
O'er  giants  cloven  down,  and  monsters  kill'd. 
Reeking  with  blood,  and  smeer'd  with  dust  and  sweat, 
Whilst  angry  gods  conspire  to  make  him  great. 

Thy  navy  rides  on  seas  before  unprest, 
And  strikes  a  terror  through  the  haughty  east ; 

,       Algiers  and  Tunis  from  their  sultry  shore 
With  horrour  hear  the  British  engines  roar, 
Fain  from  the  neighb'ring  dangers  would  they  run,  • 

And  wish  themselves  still  nearer  to  the  sun. 
The  Gallick  ships  are  in  their  ports  confin'd, 
*    Deny'd  the  common  use  of  sea  and  wind. 
Nor  dare  again  ^  the  British  strength  engage ; 
Still  they  remember  that  destructive  rage 
Which  lately  made  their  trembling  host  retire, 
Stunn'd  with  the  noise,  and  wrapt  in  smoke  and  fire ; 
The  waves  with  wide  unnumber'd  wrecks  were  strow'd, 
And  planks,  and  arms,  and  men,  promiscuous  flow'd. 
Spain's  numerous  fleet  that  perisht  on  our  coast, 
Could  scarce  a  larger  line  of  battel  boast, 

k      The  winds  could  hardly  drive  'em  to  their  fate, 

'      And  all  the  ocean  labour'd  with  the  weight. 

* 
^  Nor  dare  again.  The  battle  of  la  Hogue,  28th  May,  1692,  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  pages  in  the  history  of  the  French  navy.  Admiral  Tourville, 
with  only  44  ships,  attacked  the  English  and  Dutch  fleet  of  85,  and  fought 
them  till  night,  without  losing  a  ship  or  breaking  his  line.  After  this  spir 
ited  answer  to  an  unjust  sarcasm  of  the  Minister  of  War,  he  retreated,  and 
his  floet,  becoming  scattered,  was  blockaded  and  destro^'ed  in  different 
ports.  A  literal  verification,  though  hardly  a  justification,  of  our  Poet's 
boastful  lines. — Gr. 


LINES      TO      THE      KING.  155 

Where- e'er  the  waves  in  restless  errors  rowle, 
The  sea  lies  open  now  to  either  pole :  * 

Now  may  we  safely  use  the  northern  gales,  / 

And  in  the  Polar  Circle  spread  our  sails;  ^ 

Or  deep  in  southern  climes,  secure  from  wars,  * 

New  lands  explore,  and  sail  by  other  stars  ;  * 

Fetch  uncontroll'd  each  labour  of  the  sun,  * 

And  make  the  produot  of  the  world  our  own. 

At  length,  proud  prince,  ambitious  Lewis,  cease 
Tc  plague  mankind,  and  trouble  Europe's  peace ; 
Think  on  the  structures  which  thy  pride  has  rase'd, 
On  towns  unpeopled,  and  on  fields  laid  waste  ; 
Think  on  the  heaps  of  corps,  and  streams  of  blood, 
On  every  guilty  plain,  and  purple  flood, 
Thy  arms  have  made,  and  cease  an  impious  war, 
Nor  waste  the  lives  entrusted  to  thy  care. 
Or  if  no  milder  thought  can  calm  thy  mind, 
Behold  the  great  avenger  of  mankind, 
See  mighty  Nassau  through  the  battel  ride. 
And  see  thy  subjects  gasping  by  his  side : 
Fain  would  the  pious  prince  refuse  th'  alarm. 
Fain  would  he  check  the  fury  of  his  arm  ; 
But  when  thy  cruelties  his  thoughts  engage, 
The  hero  kindles  with  becoming  rage, 
Then  countries  stoln,  and  captives  unrestor'd, 
Give  strength  to  every  blow,  and  edge  his  sword. 
Behold  with  what  resistless  force  he  falls 
On  towns  besieg'd,  and  thunders  at  thy  walls  I 
Ask  Villeroy,'  for  Villeroy  beheld 
The  town  surrendered,  and  the  treaty  seal'd ; 

Aik  Villeroy,     Whep^  ^  fe\r  years  after  the  publication  of  this  piec«, 


156  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

With  what  amazing  strength  tlie  forts  were  won, 

Whilst  the  whole  pow'r  of  France  stood  looking  on. 
But  stop  not  here :  behold  where  Berkley  »  stands, 

And  executes  his  injur'd  King's  commands ; 

Around  thy  coast  his  bursting  bombs  he  pours 

On  flaming  cittadels  and  falling  tow'rs ; 

With  hizzing  streams  of  fire  the  air  they  streak. 

And  hurl  destruction  round  'em  where  they  break ; 

The  skies  with  long  ascending  flames  are  bright, 

And  all  the  sea  reflects  a  quivering  light. 
r  Thus  j^tna,  when  in  fierce  eruptions  broke, 

'         Fills  heav'n  with  ashes,  and  the  earth  with  smoke ; 

Here  crags  of  broken  rocks  are  twirl'd  on  high, 

Here  molten  stones  and  scatter'd  cinders  fly : 

Addison  met  Boileau,  he  may  have  recalled,  perhaps,  a  celebrated  ode  cf 
the  French  poet,  and  particularly  the  following  lines : — 

Accourez,  Nassau,  Baviere, 
De  ces  mnrs  I'unique  espoir  I 
A  couvert  d'une  riviere, 
Venez,  vous  pouvez  tout  voir. 
Considerez  ces  approchos  1 
Voyez  grimper  sur  C£S  roches 
Ces  athletes  bolliqueux ; 
Et  dans  les  eaux,  dans  la  flamme 
Louis,  a  tout  donnant  rAme, 
Marcher,  courir  avec  eux, 

Racine,  who,  as  royal  historiographer,  was  present  at  the  fii'st  siege 
of  Namur,  has  given  many  interesting  details  of  it  in  his  letters  to  Boileau. 
— G. 

^  Birldey.  Lord  Berkley's  bombardment  of  II;ivre,  Dieppe,  tfec. ,  and 
his  repulse  before  Brest,  would  hardly  seem  to  be  i  fit  subject  of  pane- 
g^'i-ic  for  a  gentle  nature  like  Addison's.  The  Engli!^h  endeavored  to  throw 
th^'  blanip  of  this  mode  of  warfare  upon  the  Fiench  a-id  struck  a  modal,  al- 
luding lo  the  use  of  bombs  as  a  Frencli  invention  L;.  the  inscription,  Suin 
peril  igjiihus  auctor ;  upon  wliich  a  philosophic  historian  justly  remarks, 
"L'exemple  du  crime  ne  justifie  point  celui  qui  riuiite." — G. 


LINES     TO      THE      KING.  157 

Its  fury  reaches  the  remotest  coast,  / 

And  strews  the  Asiatick  shore  with  dust. 

Now  does  the  sailor  from  the  neighbouring  main 
Look  after  Gallick  towns  and  forts  in  vain  ; 
No  more  his  wonted  marks  he  can  descry, 
But  sees  a  long  unmeasur'd  mine  lie  ; 
Whilst,  pointing  to  the  naked  coast,  he  shows 
His  wond'ring  mates  where  towns  and  steeples  rose, 
Where  crowded  citizens  he  lately  view'd. 
And  singles  out  the  place  where  once  St.  Maloes  stood. 

Here  E-ussel's  actions  should  my  muse  require ;' 
And  would  my  strength  but  second  my  desire, 
I'd  all  his  boundless  bravery  rehearse, 
And  draw  his  cannons  thund'ring  in  my  verse : 
High  on  the  deck  shou'd  the  great  leader  stand, 
Wrath  in  his  look,  and  lightning  in  his  hand ; 
Like  Homer's  Hector  when  he  flung  his  fire 
Amidst  a  thousand  ships,  and  made  all  Greece  retire. 

But  who  can  run  the  British  triumphs  o'er, 
And  count  the  flames  disperst  on  ev'ry  shore  ? 
Who  can  describe  the  scatter'd  victory, 
And  draw  the  reader  on  from  sea  to  sea  ? 
Else  who  could  Ormond's  god-like  acts  refuse, 
Ormond  the  theme  of  ev'ry  Oxford  muse  ? 
Fain  wou'd  I  here  his  mighty  worth  proclaim, 
Attend  him  in  the  noble  chase  of  fame. 
Through  all  the  noise  and  hurry  of  the  fight, 
Observe  each  blow,  and  keep  him  still  in  sight. 

*  Here  RuaseVs  actions,  &(i.  Russel  commanded  at  the  battle  of  the 
llogue,  though  he  was  at  the  time,  like  Marlborough  and  several  other 
leading  men,  engaged  in  a  secret^  and  therefore,  traitorous  correspondence 
with  James. — G.  '' 


158  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Oh,  did  our  British  peers  thus  court  renown, 
And  grace  the  coats  their  great  forefathers  won  ! 
Our  arms  would  then  triumphantly  advance. 
Nor  Henry  be  the  last  that  conquer'd  France. 
What  might  not  England  hope,  if  such  abroad 
Purchas'd  their  country's  honour  with  their  blood : 
"When  such,  detain'd  at  home,  support  our  state 
In  William's  stead,  and  bear  a  kingdom's  weight, 
The  schemes  of  Gallick  policy  o'er-throw, 
And  blast  the  counsels  of  the  common  foe  ; 
Direct  our  armies,  and  distribute  right, 
And  render  our  Maria's  loss  more  light. 

But  stop,  my  muse,  th'  ungrateful  sound  forbeai 
Maria's '  name  still  wounds  each  British  ear : 
Each  British  heart  Maria  still  does  *  wound. 
And  tears  burst  out  unbidden  at  the  sound  ; 
Maria  still  our  rising  mirth  destroys,    , 
Darkens  our  triumphs  and  forbids  our  joys. 

But  see,  at  length,  the  British  ships  appear  ! 
Our  Nassau  comes  !  and  as  his  fleet  draws  near, 
The  rising  masts  advance,  the  sails  grow  white, 
And  all  his  pompous  navy  floats  in  sight. 
Come,  mighty  prince,  desir'd  of  Britain,  come  I 
May  heav'n's  propitious  gales  attend  thee  home ! 

*  Maria's  name.  Queen  Mary  died  Dec.  28,  1694,  and  perhaps  no  bet- 
ter proof  can  be  given  of  William's  feelings  as  a  husband,  than  his  answer 
to  Lord  Somers,  who  coming  to  the  king  upon  business  of  the  highest  mo- 
ment, found  him  sitting  at  the  end  of  his  closet  in  an  agony  of  grief — "My 
lord,  do  what  you  will :  I  can  tlunk  of  no  business." — G. 

■  Docs  wound.  An  unlucky  blemish  in  this,  otherwise,  pretty  passage. — 
Yet  it  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  these  feeble  expletives,  do,  does,  did,  Ac.  aa 
Pope  calls  them,  are  never  to  have  a  place  in  our  verse :  the  rule  is,  "thev 
should  not  bo  coupled  with  the  verb."    The  reason  is  obvious 


LINES      TO      THE      KING.  159 

Come  and  let  longing  crowds  behold  that  look, 
Which  such  confusion  and  amazement  strook 
Through  Gallick  hosts :  but,  oh  !  let  us  descry 
Mirth  in  thy  brow,  and  pleasure  in  thy  eye  ; 
Let  nothing  dreadful  in  thy  face  be  found, 
But  for  a-while  forget  the  trumpet's  sound  ; 
Well-pleas'd  thy  people's  loyalty  approve, 
Accept  their  duty  and  enjoy  their  love. 
For  as  when  mov'd  with  fierce  delight, 
You  plung'd  amidst  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 
Whole  heaps  of  dead  encompass'd  you  around. 
And  steeds  o'er-turned  lay  foaming  on  the  ground : 
So  crown'd  with  laurels  now,  where-e'er  you  go, 
Around  yAu  blooming  joys,  and  peaceful  blessings  flow. 


LETTER    FROM    ITALY, » 

TO    THE 

EIGHT  HON.  CHAKLES  LORD  HALIFAX, 

IN    THE    YEAR    MDCCI. 


V 


Salve  magna  parens  frugum  Saturnia  tellus, 
Magna  virum !  tibi  res  antiquas  laudis  et  artis 
Aggredior,  sanctos  ausus  recludere  fontes, 

ViBG.  Geor.  IL 


INTRODUCTORY   REMARKS. 


[Of  this  poem  Addison  gives  the  following  account  in  a  letter  to  E,  Mon- 
tague:— "During  my  passage  over  the  mountains  (the  Alps,  from  Italy  to 
Geneva,  Dec.  1*701),  I  made  a  rhyming  epistle  to  my  Lord  Halifax,  which 
perhaps  I  will  trouble  3'ou  with  a  sight  of,  if  I  don't  find  it  to  be  nonsense 
upon  a  review." 

Johnson  says  (Life  of  Addison,  p.  "75):  "Whatever  were  his  other  em- 
ployments in  Italy,  ho  there  wrote  the  letter  to  Lord  Halifax,  which  is 
justly  considered  as  tlie  most  elegant,  if  not  the  most  sublime,  of  bis  poet- 
ical productions."  And  again  (p.  106):  "The  letter  from  Italy  has  been 
always  praised,  but  has  never  been  praised  beyond  its  merit.  It  is  more 
correct,  with  less  appearance  of  labor,  and  more  elegant,  with  less  ambi- 
tion of  ornament,  than  any  other  of  his  poems." 

This  poem  was  translated  into  Italian  by  Salvini,  and  the  translation 
published  both  by  Tickell  and  Ilurd.  We  have  omitted  it  in  this  edition. 
Salvini  was  an  excellent  grammarian  and  worthy  representative  of  the 
Crusca,  but  a  very  feeble  poet 

For  a  sketch  of  Lord  Halifax  see  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets — Hali- 
fax.—G.] 

■  The  subject,  so  inviting  to  our  classical  traveller,  seems  to  havt 
raised  his  fanc}'^,  and  brightened  his  expression.  Mr.  Pope  used  to  speak 
very  favorably  of  this  poem. 


LETTER      FROM      ITALY.  161 

While  you,  my  lord,  the  rural  shades  admire,  * 
And  from  Britannia's  publick  posts  retire, 
Nor  longer,  her  ungrateful  sons  to  please. 
For  their  advantage  sacrifice  your  ease ; 
Me  into  foreign  realms  my  fate  conveys,  * 
Through  nations  fruitful  of  immortal  lays, 
Where  the  soft  seas(5n  and  inviting  clime 
Conspire  to  trouble  your  repose  with  rhime. 

For  wheresoe'er  I  turn  my  ravish'd  eyes, 
Gay  gilded  scenes  and  shining  prospects  ^  rise, 
Poetick  fields  encompass  me  around. 
And  still  I  seem  to  tread  on  classic  ground ;  *   . 
For  here  the  muse  so  oft  her  harp  has  strung, 
That  not  a  mountain  rears  its  head  unsung, 
Renown'd  in  verse  each  shady  thicket  grows, 
And  ev'ry  stream  in  heavenly  numbers  flows. 

How  am  I  pleas'd  ^  to  search  thH  hiHs  and  woods 
For  rising  springs  and  celebrated  floods  ! 

*  This  introduction  is  exceedingly  graceful  and  easy,  presenting  an  equally 
pleasing  picture  of  the  patron  and  the  poet,  and  the  compliment  contained 
in  it,  is  all  the  more  honorable  to  both,  when  we  remember  that  the  per- 
son to  whom  it  was  paid,  was  a  minister  out  of  place. — G. 

'  3fe  into  foreign  realms  my  fate  conveys.  Compare  the  "Traveller" — • 
^^  My  fortune  leach  to  traverse  realms  alone"  but  what  a  difference  between 
Addison,  inspired  by  "  the  soft  season,  and  inviting  clime,"  and  Goldsmith 
spending  his  "pensive  hour  amid  Alpine  solitudes." — G. 

^  Gay  gilded  scenes  and  shining  prospects.  These  epithets  are  tautologi- 
cal The  scene  is  "  gilded  "  by  the  sunlight,  and  the  prospect  shines  from 
the  same  cause.  They  have,  too,  the  disadvantage  of  excessive  vagueness, 
a  serious  defect  in  the  opening  of  a  description.  But  this  is  the  only  defec- 
tive line  in  this  exquisite  paragraph. — G.. 

*  And  still  I  seem  to  tread  on  classic  ground.  "Quacunque  ingredimur 
in  aliqiiam  historiam  vestigium  ponimus  " — was  applied  to  Athens  by  Cicero. 
The  expression  "  classic  ground,"  is  supposed  by  Miss  Aikin,  I  know  not  on 
what  ftuthorit}',  to  have  been  here  used  in  English  for  the  first  time. — G. 

*  How  am  I  pleased.     Not  a  happy  line,  but  amply  compensated  by  the 


\62  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

To  view  the  Nar,  tumultuous  in  his  course, 
And  trace  the  smooth  Clitumnus  to  his  source. 


To  see  the  Mincio  draw  his  watry  store 

Through  the  long  windings  of  a  fruitful  shore,  • 

And  hoary  Albula's  infected  tide 

O'er  the  warm  bed  of  smoking  sulphur  glide. 

Fir'd  with  a  thousand  raptures  I  survey 
Eridanus  through  flowery  meadows  stray ; 
The  king  of  floods  !  ^  that  rolling  o'er  the  plains 
The  towering  Alps  of  half  their  moisture  drains. 
And  proudly  swoln  with  a  whole  winter's  snows, 
Distributes  wealth  and  plenty  where  he  flows. 

Sometimes,  misguided  by  the  tuneful  throng, 
I  look  for  streams  immortaliz'd  in  song, 
That  lost  in  silence  and  oblivion  lye, 
(Dumb  are  their  fountains  and  their  channels  dry) 
Yet  run  for  ever'  by  the  muse's  skill, 
And  in  the  smooth  description  murmur  still. 

Sometimes  to.g^tle  Tiber'  I  retire. 
And  the  fam'd  river's  empty  shores  admire, 

admirable  description  which  follows — in  which  the  attributes  are  applied 
with  singular  felicity,  and  the  verse  finely  adapted  to  each.  The  second 
line  on  the  Mincio  is  particularly  appropria4;e  by  its  protracted  movement, 
and  the  judicious  choice  of  circumstances. — G-. 

*  The  king  of  floods — Fluviorum  rex  Eridanus.  This  expression  was 
suggested  to  Addison  by  his  recollections  of  Virgil  rather  than  Petrarch. 
"  Re  degli  altri,  superbo,  altero  fiume." — G. 

'  Gentle  Tiber.  Here  the  description  fails.  "  Gentle  "  is  not  a  proper 
expression  for  the  "  saffron "  stream,  which  runs  rapidly  at  all  seasons, 
and  in  winter  violently.  "  Empty  shores  "  is  literally  correct,  though  not 
very  poetical;  and  both  "retire  and  admire"  sound  very  much  as  if  one 
had  called  up  the  other  witliout  any  particular  warrant  from  the  subject. 
"Retire  "  suggests  something  more  nook-like  and  sequestered  than  the  banks 
of  the  Tiber,  and  "  shores  "  are  seldom  admired  for  their  emptiness. — G. 

•  Yet  run  for  ever,  Ac.  This  way  of  giving  *o  the  copy  the  properties  of 


LETTER  FROM   ITALY.  163 

That,  destitute  of  strength,  derives  its  course 
From  thrifty  urns  and  an  unfruitful  source  ; 
Yet  sung  so  often  in  poetick  lays, 
With  scorn  the  Danube  and  the  Nile  surveys , 
So  high  the  deathless  muse  exalts  her  theme  ! 
Such  was  the  Boyne,^  a  poor  inglorious  stream, 
That  in  Hibernian  vales  obscurely  stray 'd. 
And,  unobserv'd,  in  wild  Meanders  play'd  ; 
'Till  by  your  lines  and  Nassau's  sword  renown'd, 
Its  rising  billows  through  the  world  resound, 
"Where'er  the  hero's  godlike  acts  can  pierce. 
Or  where  the  fame  of  an  immortal  verse. 
Oh,  cou'd  the  muse  my  ravish'd  breast  inspire 
With  warmth  like  yours,  and  raise  an  equal  fire, 
Unnumber'd  beauties  in  my  verse  shou'd  shine. 
And  Virgil's  Italy  shou'd  yield  to  mine  ! 

See  how  the  golden  groves  "^  around  me  smile. 
That  shun  the  coast  of  Britain's  stormy  isle, 

'Such  was  the  Boyne.  The  battle  of  the  Boyne  was  as  familiar  an  ex- 
pression with  the  English  of  those  days,  as  Waterloo  in  our  own.  The 
"  immortal  verse  "  here  alluded  to,  was  an  epistle  of  Halifax  on  that  sub- 
ject; once  very  much  admired,  but  which  now,  perhaps,  is  indebted  to 
these  very  lines  for  its  occasional  revival. — G. 

*  See  how  the  golden  groves.  This  description  is  exceedingly  happy  in 
thought  and  expression.  "  Where  western  gales  eternally  reside,"  is  less 
felicitous,  indeed,  than  Goldsmith's 

"  Sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand, 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land." 

But  the  contrast  between  the  effect  of  the  English  and  Italian  climate  is 
finely  drawn.  The  American  reader  will  observe  that  starve  is  used  in 
the  sense  of  perish  with  cold — still  a  common  usage  in  England. 

the  original,  is  not  uncommon  in  the  poets  :  But  Mr.  Addison  had  the  art 
to  introduce  this  bold  figure,  with  ease  and  grace,  into  his  prose;  as  when 
he  speaks  of  refreshment  in  a  description  of  fields  and  meadows — of  an  his- 
torian's fighting  his  battles,  and  in  other  instances : — But  see  what  he  says 
hinxjelf  on  this  subject  on  Mtssis  clypeata  virorum,  in  his  notes  on  Ovid. 


164  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Or,  when  transplanted  and  preserved  with  care, 
Curse  the  cold  clime,  and  starve  in  northern  air. 
^'  Here  kindly  warmth  their  mounting  juice  ferments 
To  nobler  tastes,  and  more  exalted  scents  : 
Ev'n  the  rough  rocks  with  tender  myrtle  bloom, 
And  trodden  weeds  send  out  a  rich  perfume. 
Bear  me,  some  god,  to  Baia's  gentle  seats. 
Or  cover  me  in  Umbria's  green  retreats  ; 
Where  western  gales  eternally  reside. 
And  all  the  seasons  lavish  all  their  pride : 
Blossoms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers  together  rise, 
And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confusion  lies. 

Immortal  glories  in  my  mind  revive, 
And  in  my  soul  a  thousand -passions  strive. 
When  Komc's  exalted  beauties  I  descry  * 
Magnificent  in  piles  of  ruine  lye. 


The  closing  lines  deserve  particular  attention.  Blosso7ns,  and  fruifs, 
and  flowers  together  rise.     This  thought  has  been  u^ed  with  great  skill  by 

Tasso : 

"  Co'  fiori  eterni,  eterno  il  frutto  dura ; 
E  mentre  spunta  Tun,  Taltro  matura." 

Geb.  Lib.    Caiit  16— st.  x 

Milton,  whom  our  author  had  already  studied  with  close  attention,  has — 

"  Blossoms  and  fruits  at  once  of  golden  hue 
Appeared."  Par.  Lost. 

But  the  beautiful  close — And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confusion  lies — which 
gives  so  perfect  a  finish  to  the  whole  scene,  is  one  of  those  happy  touches 
which  are  never  learned  by  imitation.  The  only  passage  which  can  bo 
compared  with  it,  and  not  lose  by  the  comparison,  is  the  closing  couplet  in 
the  description  of  evening  sounds  in  the  "  Deserted  Village :" 

"These  all  in  sweet  confusion  songhtthe  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made." 

*  Descry,  i.  e.  1  discern,  discover,  distinctly  survey.  "We  use  a  less  spe« 
cific  verb  in  conjunction  with  lye,  as:  "7  see  Rome's  beauties  lye  in  ruin;  * 
not,  I  descry  them  lye. 


LETTER  FROM   ITALY.  165 

An  amphitheater's  amazing  height  * 

Here  fills  my  eye  with  terrorjiniL-delightj 

That  on  its  public  shows  unpeopled  Rome, 

And  held,  uncrowded,  nations  in  its  womb  ; 

Here  pillars  rough  with  sculpture  *  pierce  the  skies  : 

And  here  the  proud  triumphal  arches^  rise, 

Where  the  old  Romans  deathless  acts  display'd, » 

Their  base  degenerate  progeny  upbraid  : 

Whole  rivers  iiere  *  forsake  the  fields  below. 

And  wond'ring  at  their  height  through  airy  channels  flow. 

Still  to  new  scenes  my  wand'ring  muse  retires. 
And  the  dumb  show  of  breathing  rooks  admires  ;        # 
Where  the  smooth  chissel  all  its  force  has  shown. 
And  soften'd  into  flesh  the  rugged  stone.  ^ 

*  An  amphitheatre^ s,  <fec.     The  Coliseum — 

♦  That  on  its  public  shows  iinpeopled  Rome, 
And  held,  uncrowded,  nations  in  its  womb.' 

In  his  epistle  to  Mr.  Addison,  on  his  Dialogue  on  Medals,  Pope  says; — 
'  Huge  theaters  that  now  unpeopled  woods, 
Now  drained  a  distant  country  of  her  floods.' 

Even  Warton  gives  the  superiority  in  this  case  to  Addison,  whose  setjond 
"line  is  uncommonly  vigorous. — G.- 

'  Here  pillars  rough  with  sculpture.  The  columns  of  Antonine  and  of 
Trajan.— G. 

'  Provd  triumphal  arches.  Yet  he  must  have  seen  them  to  mucli  less 
advantage  than  the  traveller  of  our  own  days,  for  the  lower  parts  of  them 
were  still  buried. — G. 

*  Whole  rivers  here.     The  aqueducts. — G. 
''And  softened  into  flesh  the  rugged  stone, — 

'And  legislators  seem  to  think  in  stone.' 

Temple  of  Famk 

Compare  also, 

'  And  emperors  in  Parian  marble  frown,' 

with  another  line  of  the  same  poem — 

'  Heroes  in  animated  marble  frown.' 

The  Temple  of  Fame  was  written  in  1711. — G. 

•■^  Where  the  old  Romans  deathless  acts  displayed,  i.  e.  where  the  death- 


166  rOEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

In  solemn  silence,  a  majestick  band, 

Heroes,  and  gods,  and  Roman  consuls  stand. 

Stern  tyrants,  whom  their  cruelties  renown. 

And  emperors  in  Parian  marble  frown ; 

While  the  bright  dames,  to  whom  they  humble  su'd, 

Still  show  the  charms  that  their  proud  hearts  subdu'd. 

Fain  wou'd  I  Raphael's  godlike  art  rehearse. 
And  shew  th'  immortal  labours-  in  my  verse. 
Where  from  the  mingled  strength  of  shade  and  light 
A  new  creation  rises  to  my  sight, 
Such  heav'nly  figures  from  bis  pencil  flow, 
"^  So  warm  with  life  his  blended  colours  glow. 
From  theme  to  theme  with  secret  pleasure  tost. 
Amidst  the  soft  variety  I'm  lost : 
Here  pleasing  airs  my  ravisht  soul  confound 
With  circling  notes  and  labyrinths  of  sound ; 
Here  domes  and  temples  rise  in  distant  views, 
And  opening  palaces  invite  my  muse. 

How  has  kind  heav'n  adurn'd  the  happy  land, 
And  scatter'd  blessings  with  a  wasteful  hand  ! 
But  what  avail  her  unexhausted* stores. 
Her  blooming  mountains  and  her  sunny  shores, 
With  all  the  gifts  that  heav'n  and  earth  impart. 
The  smiles  of  nature,  and  the  charms  of  art. 
While  proud  oppression  in  her  vallies  reigns, 
And  tyranny  usurps  her  happy  plains  ? 


less  acts  of  the  old  Romans  being  displayed — a  line  doubly  obscure,  and 
therefore  doubly  faulty.  If  the  latter  fault  may  be  excused,  the  former 
cannot:  for  when  a  plural  noun  is  used,  in  what  is  called  the  genitive 
case,  it  requires  to  be  preceded  by  its  sign,  the  pre|)osition  of:  above 
all,  when  the  termination  (as  is  generally  the  case  of  our  plural  nouns) 
U  in  t. 


LETTER  FROM   ITALY.  167 

The  poor  inhabitant  beholds  in  vain^ 
The  red'ning  orange  and  the  swelling  grain : 
Joyless  he  sees  the  growing  oils  and  wines, 
And  in  the  myrtlie's  fragrant  shade  repines  : 
Starves,  in  the  midst  of  nature's  bounty  curst. 
And  in  the  loaden  vineyard  dies  for  thirst. 

Oh  Liberty,  thou  goddess  heavenly  bright, 
Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with  delight ! 
Eternal  pleasures  in  thy  presence  reign. 
And  smiling  plenty  leads  thy  wanton  train ; 
Eas'd  of  her  load  subjection  grows  more  light 
And  poverty  looks  chearful  in  thy  sight ; 
Thou  mak'st  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay, 
Giv'st  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleasure  to  the  day 

Thee,  goddess,  thee,  Britannia's  isle  adores ; 
How  has  she  oft  exhausted  all  her  stores. 
How  oft  in  fields  of  death  thy  presence  sought. 
Nor  thinks  the  mighty  prize  too  dearly  bought ! 
On  foreign  mountains  may  the  sun  refine 
The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it  to  wine, 
With  citron  groves  adoril  a  distant  soil. 
And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  floods  of  oil : 
We  envy  not  the  warmer  clime,  that  lies 
In  ten  degrees  of  more  indulgent  skies,       * 
Nor  at  the  coarseness  of  our  heaven  repine, 
Tho'  o'er  our  heads  the  frozen  Pleiads  shine  :    « 
'Tis  liberty  that  crowns  Britannia's  isle, 
And  makes  her  barren  rocks  and  her  bleak  mountains  smile 

*  The  poor  inhabitant,  &c.  These  three  couplets  are  among  the  mos< 
vigorous  lines  Addisou  ever  wrote.  Si  sic  omnia — ^lie  would  have  stood  as 
high  in  vei'se  as  he  does  in  prose.  It  is  almost  too  minute  a  criticism,  per- 
haps, to  say  that  'red'ning'  is  not  the  proper  epithet  for  the  orange,  evan 
while  it  is  growing. — G. 


1 68        POEMS   ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS. 

Others  with  towering  piles  may  please  the  sight,' 
And  in  their  proud  aspiring  domes  delight ; 
t        A  nicer  touch  to  the  stretch'd  canvass  give, 
Or  teach  their  animated  rocks  to  live : 
'Tis  Britain's  care  to  watch  o'er  Europe's  fate, 
And  hold  in  balance  each  contending  state, 
,    To  threaten  bold  presumptuous  kings  with  war, 
And  answer  her  afflicted  neighbours'  pray'r. 
The  Dane  and  Swede,  rous'd  up  by  fierce  alarms, 
Bless  the  wise  conduct  of  her  pious  arms  : 
Soon  as  her  fleets  appear,  their  terrors  cease. 
And  all  the  northern  world  lies  hush'd  in  peace. 

Th'  ambitious  Gaul  beholds  with  secret  dread 
Her  thunder  aim'd  at  his  aspiring  head. 
And  fain  her  godlike  sons  wou'd  disunite 
By  foreign  gold,  or  by  domestick  spite  ; 
But  strives  in  vain  to  conquer  or  divide. 
Whom  Nassau's  arms  defend  and  counsels  guide. 
/^'Fir'd  with  the  name,  which  I  so  oft  have  found 
The  distant  climes  and  different  tongues  resound, 
I  bridle  in  my  struggling  muse  with  pain,'^ 
That  longs  to  launch  into  a  bolder  strain. 

*  Others  with  towerhig  piles,  Ac.  Virgil,  whose  magnificent  description 
of  Italy  in  the  second  Geoi'gic,  seems  to  have  been  running  in  Addison'a 
head  while  he  was  writing  sevei'al  passages  of  this  poem,  is  very  success- 
fully imitated  in  these  lines.  Compare  the  well-known  verses  of  the  sixth 
-^neid,  v.  847  :    Excudent  alii  spirantia  mollius  aera,  <fec. — G. 

*  /  hridle  in  my  struggling  muse,  &c.  Of  this  Johnson  says,  "To 
bridle  a  goddess  is  no  very  delicate  idea;  but  why  must  she  be  bridled? 
because  she  longs  to  launch !  an  act  which  was  never  hindered  by  a  bridle  ; 
and  whither  will  she  launch  ?  into  a  nobler  strain.  8he  is  in  the  first  line 
a  horse,  in  tlie  second  a  boat ;  and  the  care  of  the  poet  is  to  keep  his  horse 
or  his  boat  from  singing.'"  Blair  takes  nearly  the  same  view.  "  It  is  sur- 
prising how  the  following  inaccuracy  should  have  escaped  Mr.  Addison  in 
his  letter  from  Italy — '  I  bridle,  <fec.'     The  muse,  figured  as  a  horse,  may  be 


LETTER      FROM      ITALY.  169 

But  I've  already  troubled  you  too  long, 
Nor  dare  attempt  a  more  advent'rous  song. 
My  humble  verse*  demands  a  softer  theme, 
A  painted  meadow,  or  a  purling  stream ;  .  / 

Unfit  for  heroes ;  whom  immortal  lays,  A  / 

And  lines  like  Virgil's,  or  like  yours,  shou'd  praise.      ^ 

bridled;  but  when  we  speak  of  launching,  we  make  it  a  ship ;  and  by  no 
force  of  -imagination  can  it  be  supposed  both  a  horse  and  a  ship  at  one  mo- 
ment; bridled  to  hinder  it  from  launching." — G. 

*  My  humble  verse.     Sed  ne  relictis,  musa  procax,  jocis,  &c.     To  one    \^  / 
who  travelled  with  the  Latin  poets  for  his  guide  books,  it  is  more  than     V 
probable  that  the  closing  stanza  of  the  first  ode  of  Horace's  2d  book  sug- 
gested this  graceful  clo8e.-~G. 

VOL.   I. — 8 


THE  CAMPAIGN, 

TO  niS  GEACE  THE  DUKE  OF  MARLBOROUGH, 


-Eheni  pacator  et  IstrL 


Omnis  in  hoc  uno  variis  discordia  cessit 
Ordinibus ;  Isetatur  eques,  plauditque  senator, 
Votaque  patricio  certant  plebeia  favori. 

Claud,  de  Laud.  Stilio. 

Esse  aliquam  in  ten-is  gentem  quae  sua  impcnsA,  suo  labore  ac  periculo  bella  gj^nit 
pro  libertate  aliorum.  Nee  hoc  finitimis,  aot  proplnquie  vincinitatis  hominibus,  aut  terris 
continenti  junctis  prsestet  Maria  trajiciat:  ne  quod  toto  orbe  terrarum  injustum  imperium 
sit,  et  ubique  jus,  fas,  lex,  potentissima  sint.  Lrv^.  Hist.  lib.  33. 


INTRODUCTORY    REMARKS. 

[The  best  authorities  very  nearly  agree  in  the  folio  ving  account  of  the  ori- 
gin of  this  poem : — "The  victory  at  Blenheim"  (1704),  says  Jolmsbn,  "spread 
triumph  and  confidence  over  the  nation  ;  and  Lord  Godolpliin  lamenting  to 
Lord  HaUfax,  tliat  it  had  not  been  celebrated  in  zi  manner  equal  to  the 
subject,  desired  him  to  propose  it  to  some  better  poet.  Halifax  told  him 
that  there  was  no  encouragement  for  genius;  that  worthless  men  were 
unprofitably  enriched  with  public  money,  without  any  care  to  find  or 
employ  those  whose  appearance  might  do  lionor  to  their  country.  To 
this  Godolphin  replied,  that  such  abuses  should  in  time  be  rectified  :  and 
that  if  a  man  could  be  found,  capable  of  the  task  then  proposed,  he  should 
not  want  an  ample  recompense.  Halifax  then  named  Addison,  but  re- 
quired that  the  treasurer  should  apply  to  him  in  his  own  person.  Godol- 
phin sent  the  message  by  Mr.  Boyle,  afterwards  Lore  Carleton ;  and  Addi-r 
son  having  undertahen  the  work,  commxmicated  it  t^  the  treasurer,  whilis 
it  way  yet  advanced  no  farther  than  the  simile  of  ;'.. e  angel,  and  was  im- 
mediately rewarded  by  succeeding  Mr.  Locke  in  th<^  nlace  of  OommUuoner 
oj  Appeals." 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  171 

Of  the  work  itself,  Johnson  remarks: — "The  next  composition  is  the 
far-famed  Campaign,  which  Di\  Wartoii  has  termed  a  *  Gazette  in  rhyme,' 
with  harshness  not  often  used  by  the  good  nature  of  his  criticism.  Before 
a  censure  so  severe  is  admitted,  let  us  consider  that  war  is  a  frequent  sub- 
ject of  poetry,  and  then  inquire  who  has  described  it  with  more  greatness 
and  force.  Many  of  our  own  writers  tried  their  powers  upon  this  year 
of  victory ;  yet  Addison's  is  confessedly  the  best  performance :  his  poem 
is  the  work  of  a  man  not  blinded  by  the  dust  of  learning ;  his  images  are 
not  borrowed  merely  from  books.  The  superiority  which  he  confers  upon 
his  hero  is  not  personal  prowess  and  *  mighty  bone,'  but  deliberate 
intrepidity^  a  calm  command  of  his  passions,  and  the  power  of  consulting 
his  own  mind  in  the  midst  of  danger.  The  rejection  and  contempt  dT  fic- 
tion is  rational  and  manly." 

Macaulay's  remarks  are  an  amplification  and  illustration  of  the  last 
sentence  of  Johnson's.  "  The  '  Campaign '  came  forth  and  was  as  much 
admired  by  the  public  as  by  the  minister.  It  pleases  us  less  on  the  whole 
than  the  'Epistle  to  Halifax.'  Yet  it  undoubtedly  ranks  high  among  the 
poems  during  the  interval  between  the  death  of  Dryden  and  the  dawn  of  : 
Pope's  genius.  The  chief  merit  of  the  '  Campaign,'  we  think,  is  tliat 
which  was  noticed  by  Johnson-Z^the  manly  and  rational  rejection  of  fic- 
tion." \  And  after  a  lively  passage  upon  the  ridiculous  imitation  of  the 
Homeric  style  of  combat  in  descriptions  of  battles  fought  on  entirely  differ- 
ent militaiy  principles,  he  adds: — "Addison,  with  excellent  taste  and 
judgment,  departed  fi'om  this  ridiculous  fashion.  He  reserved  his  praise, 
for  the  qualities  which  made  Marlborough  truly  great :  energy,  sagacity, 
military  science.  But  above  all,  the  poet  extolled  the  firmness  of  that 
mind,  which,  in  the  midst  of  confusion,  uproar  and  slaughter,  examined 
and  disposed  every  thing  with  the  serene  wisdom  of  a  higher  intelligence." 

The  "  Campaign  "  of  this  poem  is  the  campaign  of  1704.  "When  tliis 
poem  was  written  all  the  incidents  of  the  campaign  of  1*704  were  as  famil- 
iar as  Quatre  Bras  and  Waterloo,  For  the  modern  reader  they  require  an 
explanation,  and  I  translate  the  following  admirable  sketch  from  a  French 
historian: — 

"  The  Elector  of  Bavaria  and  Marshal  Villars  had  quarrelled  openly, 
and  the  operations  were  suffering  from  it.  Villars  asked  to  be  recalled, 
and  the  king,  to  preserve  an  ally  so  important  as  the  elector,  sent  Marshal 
Marsiu  to  replace  him.  Germany  was  still  paralyzed  by  the  victory  of 
Hoclistadt  (gained  by  Villars,  Sept.  20, 1703).  The  elector  took  advantage 
of  it  to  seize  Augsburgh,  and  march  upon  Passau,  which  he  took  on  the  9th 
Jan.,  1704.  Vienna  was  struck  with  terror;  the  Hungarian  insurgents 
pushed  their  bands  up  to  the  suburbs;  the  emperor  prepared  to  flee  into 
Moi'avia.  Eugene,  Marlborough  and  Heinsius  resolved  to  save  Austria  by 
the  boldest  of  plans.  As  the  French  line  of  operations  extended  from 
Strasburgh  to  Passau,  it  seemed  easy  to  cut  it  in  the  middle  and  ciush  the 


172  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

elector,  whom  the  coalition  had  sworn  to  ruin  entirely.  Tlie  three  great 
genei:als  of  the  allies  united  to  put  this  plan  in  execution.  Louis  of  Baden 
resumed  the  offensive  in  Franconia.  Eugene  collected  the  remnants  of 
the  defeat  of  Spire,  and  undertook  the  defence  of  the  lines  of  Stolhofen. 
Mai'lborough,  who  had  Yilleroj  and  Boufflers  before  him,  left  in  a  camp 
near  Maestricht  twenty-five  thousand  Dutch  troops,  to  hold  them  in  check, 
and  mai'ched,  with  twenty  thousand  men,  towards  the  Danube.  First  he 
moved  as  if  he  were  going  to  march  upon  the  Moselle,  then  turning  rapidly 
towards  the  Rhine,  crossed  it  at  Cologne,  formed  a  junction  before  May- 
ence  with  the  contingents  of  the  Palatinate  and  Brandenburgh,  and  passed 
the  Neckar  at  Heilbronn.  (Here  he  met  Eugene.)  At  the  news  of  this 
march,  Villeroy  set  out  with  thirty  thousand  men  in  pursuit  of  the  English 
general.  Tallard  advanced  upon  the  Moselle,  then  fell  back  upon  the  Lau- 
ten,  joined  Villeroy,  and  prepared  to  attack  Stolhofen,  in  order  to  relieve 
the  elector.  But  the  elector,  instead  of  turning  upon  Louis  of  Baden,  and 
crushing  him,  directed  his  march  towards  the  left  bank  of  the  Danube,  and 
fortified  Donauwerth  on  the  Schellenberg,  where  he  awaited  the  arrival  of 
Tallard.  Marlborough  and  Louis  of  Baden  were  thus  left  free  to  form  a 
junction  at  Ulm  (July  2),  then  marched  directly  to  the  Schellenberg,  car- 
ried tlie  position  of  Donauwerth,  and  drove  back  the  Bavarians  to  the  right 
bank  of  the  Danube.  This  bloody  combat,  in  Avhich  the  Bavarians  lost 
eight  thousand  men,  and  the  allies  six  thousand,  freed  the  passage  of  the 
Lech,  and  laid  open  Bavaria,  which  was  ravaged  as  fearfully  as  the  Palati- 
nate had  been  a  few  years  before.  The  vanquished  army  fortified  them- 
selves at  Augsburgh,  where  they  waited  the  arrival  of  Tallard,  in  order 
to  resume  the  offensive.  Tiillard,  by  order  of  the  court,  advanced  rapidly 
with  thirty-five  thousand  men,  from  the  lines  of  Lautenburgh,  leaving  Vil- 
leroy to  hold  Eugene  in  check  at  Stolhofen,  passed  the  Rhine  at  Huningen, 
crossed  the  defiles  of  the  Black  Forest,  and  reached  Augsburgh  the  3d  of 
August,  forming  with  the  troops  of  the  elector  an  army  of  fifty-six  thou- 
sand men.  Eugene  quitted  the  line  of  Stolhofen  with  equal  rapidity  ;  but 
being  thieatened  by  Villeroy,  was  unable  to  stop  Tallard  on  liis  march,  and 
reached  Hochstadt  the  same  day  that  his  adversary  reached  Augsburgh. 
This  was  a  fine  opportunity  for  the  French  to  march  upon  tlie  corps  of  Eu- 
gene, only  twenty  thousand  men  strong,  and  crush  it;  but  the}'  lost  time. 
Marlborough  advanced  rapidly  to  his  colleague's  support,  and  the  two  ar- 
mies uniting  at  Hochstadt  formed  a  force  of  fifty-two  thousand  men.  The 
strategic  field  of  this  portion  of  the  basin  of  the  Danube  being  the  right 
bank  of  tlie  river,  where  the  communications  are  easy  and  the  country 
abundant,  while  the  left  bank  is  wild,  witliout  roads,  and  shut  in  by  moun- 
tains which  surround  the  basin,  the  French  ought  to  have  kept  on  the 
right  bank,  refused  battle,  and  waited  for  the  enemy  to  retreat ;  and  as 
the  allies  could  not  have  penetrated  into  Bavaria  without  leaving  too  far 
behind  their  maga/ines  of  Nordlingen  and  Nuremberg,  they  would  hava 


THECAMPAIGN.  173 

been  couipelled  either  to  fall  back  upon  the  Mein,  or  allow  Villeroy  to  cut 
off  their  communications.  But  instead  of  this  the  two  marshals  and  the 
elector  passed  the  Danube  at  Huningen,  to  give  battle.  This  was  precisely 
what  their  adversaries  wished,  who,  to  anticipate  them,  took  station  near 
Hochstadt,  with  their  left  resting  on  the  Danube.  Tallard  and  Marsin  in- 
terpreted this  movement  as  a  feint  to  mask  a  retreat  upon  Nuremberg, 
and  drew  up  their  army  in  such  a  way  as  to  form  two  distinct  armies,  each 
with  its  infantry  in  the  centre,  and  the  cavalry  on  the  wings ;  and  more- 
over, believing  their  right  flank  menaced,  they  stripped  the  centre  to 
crowd  together  on  this  flank,  which  was  naturally  covered  by  the  Danube, 
twenty-seven  battalions,  and  twelve  squadrons,  forming  more  than  twelve 
thousand  men,  who  were  thus  left  isolated  and  useless  in  the  village  of 
Blenheim.  Marlborough,  after  having  exhorted  his  troops  to  fight  for  the 
"  freedom  of  the  nations,"  advanced  against  the  centre,  broke  it,  andcut  the 
French  Bavarian  army  in  two ;  then  turned  to  the  right  wing,  drove  it 
into  the  river,  and  made  Tallard  prisoner.  Marsin  and  the  elector,  who 
were  contending  more  successfully  on  the  left  with  Eugene,  instead  of 
taking  Marlborough  in  flank,  and  thus  disengaging  their  right  wing,  re- 
crossed  the  Danube,  and  retreated  upon  Ulm,  without  giving  any  orders 
to  the  twelve  thousand  men  in  Blenheim,  who  were  surrounded  and  com- 
pelled to  lay  down  their  arms  without  fighting,  (Aug.  13.)  The  loss  of 
the  two  armies  in  killed  and  wounded  was  twelve  thousand  men  each ; 
but  the  French  lost  also  twelve  thousand  prisoners,  and  the  rest  of  their 
army  was  thrown  into  such  utter  confusion,  that  twelve  thousand  more 
got  lost  or  deserted,  and  twenty  thousand  were  all  that  the  elector  could 
collect  in  Ulm,  The  incapacity  of  the  generals  made  the  consequences  of 
this  defeat  even  moi-e  disastrous  than  the  defeat  itself.  Marsin,  finding 
liimself  pursued,  threw  himself  into  the  Black  Forest,  where  he  formed, 
near  Villingen,  a  junction  with  Yilleroy ;  who,  if  he  had  followed  Eugene, 
as  Eugene  had  followed  Tallard,  might  have  prevented  this  disaster. 
By  this  junction  the  French  army  was  once  more  equal  to  the  allies,  and 
Marsin  and  Yilleroy  might  have  defended  the  passes ;  but  they,  terroi-- 
struck,  hurried  over  the  mountains,  and  it  was  not  till  they  had  put 
the  Rhine  betAveen  them  and  the  enemy,  that  thoy  felt  themselves  safe. 
The  elector  took  refuge  in  France. 

' "  It  was  long  since  France  had  met  with  such  a  disaster.  By  one  stroke 
a  hundred  leagues  of  territory,  the  states  of  Bavaria,  and  an  army  of 
fifty  thousand  men  were  lost;  Austria  saved  and  France  menaced  with  in- 
vasion. The  allies  full  of  joy  at  this  unhoped  for  fortune,  talked  of  noth- 
ing less  than  reducing  Louis  XIV.  to  the  dominions  which  had  been  held 
by  his  father.  They  crossed  the  Rhine  at  Phippsburgh,  but  the  Prince  of 
Baden  refusing  to  invade  Lorraine,  they  confined  their  efforts  to  Landau, 
which  they  laid  siege  to  and  took,  while  difi^erent  detachments  freed  the 
country  between  the  Rhine  and  the  Meuse,  seized  Treves,  Traerbach,  and 


174 


POEMS  ON   SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 


Saarbruck,  and  stripped  the  Elector  of  Cologne  who,  like  his  brother,  took 
refuge  in  France." — G.] 


THE    CAMPAIGN. a 

While  crowds  of  princes  your  deserts  proclaim, 
Proud  in  tlieir  number  to  enroll  your  name ; 
While  emperors  to  you  commit  their  cause, 
And  Anna's  praises  crown  the  vast  applause  ; 
Accept,  great  leader,  what  the  muse  recites. 
That  in  ambitious  verse  attempts  your  fights, 
Fir'd  and  transported  with  a  theme  so  new. 
Ten  thousand  wonders  op'ning  to  my  view 
Shine  forth  at  once ;  sieges  and  storms  appear. 
And  wars  and  conquests  fill  th'  important  year, 
Eivers  of  blood  I  see,  and  hills  of  slain. 
An  Iliad  rising  ^  out  of  one  campaign. 

The  haughty  Gaul  beheld,  with  tow'ring  pride, 
His  ancient  bounds  enlarg'd  on  ev'ry  side, 
Pirene's  lofty  barriers  were  subdu'd, 
And  in  the  midst  of  his  wide  empire  stood  ; 
Ausonia's  states,  the  victor  to  restrain. 
Opposed  their  Alps  and  Appenines  in  vain, 
Nor  found  themselves,  with  strength  of  rocks  immur'd. 
Behind  their  everlasting  hills  secur'd  ; 
The  rising  Danube  its  long  race  began, 
And  half  its  course  through  the  new  conquests  ran; 

*  An  Iliad  rising.  The  expression  is  not  happy,  for  the  Iliad  whicli 
naturally  occurs  to  the  reader  is  not  tlie  ten  years'  siege  of  Ilium,  but 
Homer's  story  of  it,  which  really  forms  a  shorter  campaign  than  this. — G. 

■  Tlie  execution  of  this  poem  is  better  than  the  plan.  Indeed  the 
«ubjoct  was  fit  only  for  an  ode,  and  might  kave  furnished  inaterials  for  a 
very  fine  one,  if  Mr.  Addison  had  possessetfthe  talents  of  a  lyric  poet. 
However,  particular  passages  are  wrought  up  into  much  life  and  beauty. 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  175 

A.maz'd  and  anxious  for  her  sovereign's  fates, 
Germania  trembled  through  a  hundred  states ; 
Great  Leopold^  himsolf  was  seized  with  fear  ; 
He  gaz'd  around,  but  saw  no  succour  near  ; 
He  gaz'd,  and  half  abandon'd  to  despair,  ^ 
His  hopes  on  heav'n,  and  confidence  in  pray'r. 

To  Britain's  queen  the  nations  turn  their  eyes, 
On  her  resolves  the  western  world  relies, 
Confiding  still,  amidst  its  dire  alarms, 
In  Anna's  councils,  and  in  Churchill's  ^  arms. 
Thrice  happy  Britain,  from  the  kingdoms  rent,  * 
To  sit  the  guardian  of  the  continent ! 
That  sees  her  bravest  son  advanc'd  so  high, 
And  flourishing  so  near  her  prince's  eye ; 
Thy  fav'rites  grow  not  up  by  fortune's  sport, ' 
Or  from  the  crimes,  or  follies  of  a  court ; 
On  the  firm  basis  of  desert  they  rise. 
From  long-try'd  faith,  and  friendship's  holy  ties : 

'  Great  Leopold.  Leopold  I.,  Emperor  of  Germany,  who  died  tha 
following  year. — Gr. 

■  Half  abandoned  to  despair,  &c.  In  pi-eparing  the  compliment  for 
Queen  Anne,  which  bojins  the  next  paragraph,  Addison  does  not  seem  to 
have  remembered  that  a  pi'ince  who,  like  Leopold,  had  been  educated  for 
the  church,  and  was  all  his  life  devoted  to  the  clergy,  could  hardly  feel 
flattered  by  a  description  which  says  so  little  for  '  his  hopes  on  heaven  and 
confidence  in  prayer.' — G. 

^  Churchill.     John  Churchill,  Duke  of  Marlborough. — G. 

**  From  tfte  kingdoms  rent.  Et  penitus  toto  divisos  orbe  Britannos. — 1st 
Buc.  Very  happily  applied  by  Tasso  to  Ireland.  La  divisa  dal  mondo 
ultima  Irlanda. — Geiu  Lib.  Cant.  V.  1,  st. — G. 

^  TJty  favorites  grow  not  up  by  fortune's  sport.  This  is  rather  bold  to 
apply  to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  who,  with  all  his  talent,  was  indebted 
to  a  not  very  creditable  "sport  of  fortune"  for  his  first  start.  But  here 
it  is  not  merely  Addison  the  poet,  but  Addison  the  Whig,  that  speaks. — 
Vide  Macaulaj's  Hist  of  England,  ch.  4,  and  for  variety  compare  Coxe'a 
Mem.  of  Marlbor)ugh. — G. 


176  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Tlieir  sovereign's  well-distmguish'd  smiles  they  share, 

Her  ornaments  in  peace,  her  strength  in  war ; 

The  nation  thanks  them  with  a  public  voice, 

By  show'rs  of  blessings  heav'n  approves  their  choice ; 

Envy  itself  is  dumb,  in  wonder  lost, 

And  factions  strive  who  shall  applaud  'em  most. 
V^  I       Soon  as  soft  vernal  breezes  ^  warm  the  sky, 
y  Britannia's  colours  in  the  zephyrs  fly; 
A  Her  chief  already  has  his  march  begun, 
/     Crossing  the  provinces  himself  had  won, 

Till  the  Moselle,  appearing  from  afar, 

Retards  the  progress  of  the  moving  war. 

Delightful  stream,  had  nature  bid  her  fall 

In  distant  climes,  far  from  the  perjur'd  Gaul ; 

But  now  a  purchase  to  the  sword  she  lies, 

Her  harvests  for  uncertain  owners  rise. 

Each  vineyard  doubtful  of  its  master  grows, 

And  to  the  victor's  bowl  each  vintage  flows. 

*  Sooii  as  soft  vernal  breezes.  In  studying  so  careful  a  writer  as  Addi- 
son, it  may  be  permitted  to  ask  what  office  is  performed  by  the  "  zephyrs  " 
of  the  next  line  which  could  not  have  been  performed  equally  well  by  the 
"vernal  breezes"  of  the  first?  But  the  whole  of  this  paragraph  is  stiff, 
and  shows  how  hard  the  writer  found  it,  in  spite  of  his  enthusiasm,  to  get 
into  his  subject.  Tlie  Moselle  is  introduced  ic  the  first  line  of  the  third 
couplet  with  very  good  effect,  but  the  effort  reappears  in  the  unhapp}' 
application  of  the  epithet  moving  to  war,  in  the  equivocal  use  of  "  fall," 
as  applied  to  a  river,  and  the  introduction  of  "  discontented  shades,"  in  a 
poem  professedly  historical  and  human.  Tliere  are,  however,  three  vigor- 
ous lines,  in  which  truth  and  poetry  are  combined  with  singular  felicity,  in 
painting,  by  a  judicious  choice  of  circumstances,  some  of  the  guilt  of  war : — 

Her  harvests  for  uncertain  owners  rise, 

Each  vineyard  doubtful  of  its  master  grows, 

And  to  tlio  victor's  bowl  each  vintage  flows. 

These  lines  have  been  imitated  by  Voltaire,  tliougli  with  a  mythological 
application — 

"  Incertains  pour  quel  niAitre,  en  ces  plalnes  fecondes, 
Vont  croitre  l«urs  inoissons  et  vont  conlor  lours  ondes." 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  177 

The  discontented  shades  of  slaughter'd  hosts, 
That  wander'd  on  her  banks,  her  heroes  ghosts 
Hop'd,  when  they  saw  Britannia's  arms  appear, 
The  vengeance  due  to  their  great  deaths  was  near 

Our  godlike  leader,''  ^  ere  the  stream  he  pass'd, 
The  mighty  scheme  of  all  his  labours  cast, 
Forming  the  wondrous  year  within  his  thought ; 
His  bosom  glow'd  with  battles  yet  unfought. 
The  long  laborious  march  he  first  surveys, 
And  joins  the  distant  Danube  to  the  Maese, 
Between  whose  floods  such  pathless  forests  grow, 
Such  mountains  rise,  so  many  rivers  flow : 
The  toil  looks  lovely  in  the  hero's  eyes, 
And  danger  serves  but  to  enhance  the  prize. 

Big  with  the  fate  of  Europe,  ^  he  renews 
His  dreadful  course,  and  the  proud  foe  pursues  : 
Infected  by  the  burning  Scorpion's  heat. 
The  sultry  gales  round  his  cliaf  'd  temples  beat, 
Till  on  the  borders  of  the  Maine  he  finds 
Defensive  shadows,  and  refreshing  winds. 
Our  British  youth,  with  in-born  freedom  bold, 
Unnumber'd  scenes  of  servitude  behold, 

*  Our  godlike  leader.  Here  the  verse  flows  with  far  more  freedom, 
and  Marlborough  is  drawn  in  such  a  way  as-  to  give  him,  at  once,  his  true 
place  as  the  controlling  spirit  of  the  whole  campaign. — G. 

'  Big  with  the  fate  of  Europe.     A  striking  expression  in  the  opening 

scene  of  Cato — 

"  The  day  big  with  the  fate 
Of  Cato  and  of  Rome—  "  . 

but  sadly  out  of  place  here.     Indeed,  the  stiffness  from  which  Addison's   /  j 
heroic  verse  is  never  free  for  many  couplets  together,  appears  agam  in  this  ' 
paragraph.     It  closes,  however,  with  a  beautiful  patriotic  thought,  beau- 
tifully expressed. — G. 

•  Our  godlike  leader  Our  poets,  half  paganized  in  their  education, 
deal  much  too  freely  in  this  epithet 


178  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Nations  of  slaves,  with  tyranny  dcbas'd, 
(Their  Maker's  image  more  than  half  def^ic'd) 
Hourly  instructed,  as  they  urge  their  toil, 
To  prize  their  queen,  and  love  tiiyir  native  soil. 
f^\y/^     Still  to  the  rising  sun,  they  take  their  way 
1/      Through  clouds  of  dust,  and  gain  upon  the  day. 
When  now  the  Neckar  on  its  friendly  coast 
/With  cooling  streams  revives  the  fainting  host, 
That  cheerfully  its  labours  past  forgets,    " 
The  midnight  watches,  and  the  noon-day  heats. 
O'er  prostrate  towns  and  palaces  they  pass, 
(Now-cover'd  o'er  with  weeds,  and  hid  in  grass) 
Breathing  revenge;  whilst  anger  and  disdain 
Fire  ev'ry  breast,  and  boil  in  ev'ry  vein : 
Here  shatter 'd  walls,  like  broken  rocks,  from  far 
Rise  up  in  hideous  views,  the  guilt  of  war. 
Whilst  here  the  vine  o'er  hills  of  ruin  climbs, 
Industrious  io  conceal  great  Bourbon's  crimes. 
At  length  the  fame  of  England's  hero  drew 
Eugenie  to  the  glorious  interview.  ^ 
Great  souls  ^  by  instinct  to  eac-'"  other  tura, 
Demand  alliance,  and  in  friendship  burn ; 

*  Eugcnio  to  the  glorious  interview.  At  Heilbronn,  where  these  two 
great  men  met  for  the  jSrst  time,  thougli  the  general  plan  of  the  campaign 
had  been  concerted  between  them  by  letter.  The  reader  will  remember 
Sir  Roger's  visit  to  London  to  see  Prince  Eugene,  "Having  heard  him  say 
more  than  once,  in  private  discourse,  that  he  looked  upon  Prince  Eugenio 
(for  so  the  knight  always  calls  him)  to  be  a  greater  man  than  Scander- 
berg." — G. 

^  Great  souls,  &c.  The  next  two  couplets  are  very  strained,  common- 
place in  thougljt,  confused  in  imagery,  and  tamo  in  expression.  The  idea 
of  souls  shooting  out  rays  toward  each  otlier,  which  nieet  and  blaze  up 
in  a  common  conflagration,  sounds  more  like  "  hoarse  Sir  Ricliard "  than 
4ddi8on,  and  is  worthy  of  one  of  the  high  places  of  the  "  Art  of  sinking." 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  179 

A  sudden  friendship,  while  with  stretch'd-out  rajs    > 
They  meet  each  other,  mingling  blaze  with  blaze.      ^ 
Polish'd  in  courts,  and  hardened  in  the  field, 
Renown'd  for  conquest,  and  in  council  skill'd, 
Their  courage  dwells  not  in  a  troubled  flood 
Of  mounting  spirits,  and  fermenting  blood : 
Lodg'd  in  the  soul,  with  virtue  over-rul'd, 
Inflam'd  by  reason,  and  by  reason  cool'd,  • 

In  hours  of  peace  content  to  be  unknown, 
And  only  in  the  field  of  battle  shown: 
To  souls  like  these,  in  mutual  friendship  join'd, 
Heaven  dares  intrust  the  cause  of  human  kind. 

Britannia's  graceful  sons  appear  in  arms,  ^ 
Her  harass'd  troops  the  hero's  presence  warms, 
Whilst  the  high  hills  and  rivers  all  around 
With  thund'ring  peals  of  British  shouts  resound : 
Doubling  their  speed,  they  march  with  fresh  delight, 
Eager  for  glory,  and  require  the  fight. 
So  the  stanch  hound  the  trembling  deer  pursues, 
And  smells  his  footsteps  in  the  tainted  dews, 

Tlie  remainder  of  the  paragraph  is  at  least  good  senge,  and  in  the  last 

couplet  but  one — 

"  In  hours  of  peace,  content  to  be  unknown, 
And  only  in  the  field  of  battle  shown — ^" 

Addison  is  himself  again.  The  Dutch  struck  a  medal  with  Marlborough 
and  Eugene's  heads  in  profile,  and  the  inscription — Heroxcm  concordia 
victrix. — G. 

^  Britannia's  graceful  sons.  An  odd  epithet  for  soldiers,  and  still  more 
so  by  its  local  contrast  witli  "  harassed  troops."  It  requires  a  moment's 
reflection  to  see  that  they  refer  to  the  same  persons.  But  the  tameness 
of  the  first  thrfie  couplets  of  this  paragraph  is  compensated  by  the  simile 
of  the  hound,  equally  just  and  beautiful,  and  expressed  in  Addison's  best 
manner.  Though,  perhaps,  the  picture  would  have  been  moi-e  exact,  and 
none  the  less  poetical,  if  bounds  had  been  used  instead  of  shoots,  in  de- 
scribing the  sudden  start  of  the  dog  on  the  fresl^  scent. — G. 


180        POEMS   ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS. 

The  tedious  track  unrav'Hng  by  degrees : 
But  when  the  scent  comes  warm  in  ev'ry  breeze, 
Fir'd  at  the  near  approach,  he  shoots  away 
On  his  full  stretch,  and  bears  upon  his  prey. 

The  march  concludes, '  the  various  realms  are  past, 
Th'  immortal  Schellenberg  appears  at  last ; 
Like  hills  th'  aspiring  ramparts  rise  on  high, 
Like  valleys  at  their  feet  the  trenches  lie  ; 
Batt'ries  on  batt'ries  guard  each  fatal  pass, 
Threat'ning  destruction  ;  rows  of  hollow  brass, 
Tube  behind  tube,  the  dreadful  entrance  keep, 
Whilst  in  their  wombs  ten  thousand  thunders  sleep : 
Great  Churchill  owns,  charm'd  with  the  glorious  sight, 
His  march  o'erpaid  by  such  a  promis'd  fight. 
A^      4      The  western  sun  now  shot  a  feeble  ray, 
I  And  faintly  scatter'd  the  remains  of  day, 

Ev'ning  approach'd  ;  but,  oh  !  what  hosts  of  foes 
Were  never  to  behold  that  ev'ning  close ! 
Thick'ning  their  ranks,  and  wedg'd  in  firm  array. 
The  close-compacted  Britons  win  their  way : 
In  vain  the  cannon  their  throng'd  war  defac'd 
With  tracts  of  death,  and  laid  the  battle  waste ; 
Still  pressing  forward  to  the  fight,  they  broke 
Through  flames  of  sulphur,  and  a  night  of  smoke, 
Till  slaughter'd  legions  fiU'd  the  trench  below. 
And  bore  their  fierce  avengers  to  the  foe. 

High  on  the  works  the  mingling  hosts  engage ; 
The  battle  kindled  into  tenfold  rage 

*  2'he  march  concludes.  Fr<:)m  this  point  the  poem  continues  through 
several  paraj^niphs,  with  a  full  flt)W  of  vigorous  and  haimonious  verse,  in 
which  the  three  couplets  beginning  "The  Western  Sun,"  should  be  parti- 
cularly mentioned.     For  the  "Schellenberg,"  see  the  introduction. — G. 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  *  181 

With  show'rs  of  bullets,  and  with  storms  of  fire 
Burns  in  full  fury ;  heaps  on  heaps  expire, 
Nations  with  nations  mix'd  confus'dly  die, 
And  lost  in  one  promiscuous  carnage  lie. 

How  many  gen'rous  Britons  meet  their  doom, 
New  to  the  field,  and  heroes  in  the  bloom ! 
Th'  illustrious  youths,  that  left  their  native  shore 
To  march  where  Britons  never  march'd  before, 
(0  fatal  love  of  fame  !  0  glorious  heat,  *  ' 

Only  destructive  to  the  brave  and  great !) 
After  such  toils  o'ercome,  such  dangers  past, 
Stretch'd  on  Bavarian  ramparts,  breathe  their  last. 
But  hold,  my  muse,  may  no  complaints  appear, 
Nor  blot  the  day  with  an  ungrateful  tear  ; 
While  Marlbro'  lives  Britannia's  stars  dispense 
A  friendly  light  and  shine  in  innocence. 
Plunging  thro'  seas  of  blood  ^  his  fiery  steed, 
Where'er  his  friends  retire,  or  foes  succeed ;  * 
Those  he  supports,  these  drives  to  sudden  flight. 
And  turns  the  various  fortune  of  the  fight. 

Forbear,  great  man,  ^  renown'd  in  arms,  forbear 
To  brave  the  thickest  terrors  of  the  war, 
Nor  hazard  thus,  confus'd  in  crowds  of  foes, 
Britannia's  safety,  and  the  world's  repose  ; 
Let  nations  anxious  for  thy  life,  abate 
This  scorn  of  danger,  and  contempt  of  fate  : 


^  Plunging  thro'  seas  of  blood.  Here  Marlborough  has  a  little  too 
much  of  the  *  mighty  bone,'  and  Addison  seems  to  forfeit  for  a  moment  his 
claims  to  the  praise  of  Johnson  and  Macaulay. — G. 

'  Where'er  his  friends  retire,  or  foes  succeed.  Chronicled,  and  not  un- 
worthily, in  the  eleventh  chapter  of  the  "Art  of  sinking  in  poetry." — G. 

^Forbear,  great  man.  Ne  rue  per  niedios  nimium  temerarius  hostes. — 
PT.ars.  2.  vii.  v.  590.  Imitated  also  by  Voltaire — "  Ah  cher  prince,  arrfitez." 
^ontenoi. — G. 


182  PO*EMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Thou  liv'st  not  for  thyself ;  thy  queen  demands 
Conquest  and  peace  from  thy  victorious  hands ; 
Kingdoms  and  empires  in  thy  fortune  join, 
And  Europe's  destiny  depends  on  thine. 

At  length  the  long-disputed  pass  they  gain, 
By  crouded  armies  fortify'd  in  vain  ; 
The  war  breaks  in,  the  fierce  Bavarians  yield, 
And  see  their  camp  with  British  legions  fill'd. 
So  Belgian  mounds  '  hear  on  their  shatter'd  sides 
The  sea's  whole  weight,  increas'd  with  swelling  tides ; 
But  if  the  rushing  wave  a  passage  finds, 
Enrag'd  by  wat'ry  moons,  and  warring  winds, 
The  trembling  peasant  sees  his  country  round 
Cover'd  with  tempests,  and  in  oceans  drown'd. 

The  few  surviving  foes  disperst  in  flight, 
(Refuse  of  swords,  and  gleanings  of  a  fight)* 
In  ev'ry  rustling  wind  the  victor  hear,  ^ 
And  Marlbro's  form  in  ev'ry  shadow  fear, 

^So  Belgian  mounds.  In  his  examination  of  the  simile  of  the  Angela 
Johnson  says:  "In  the  poem  now  examined  (the  Campaign)  where  the 
English  are  represented  as  gaining  a  fortified  pass,  by  repetition  of  attack, 
and  perseverance  of  resolution,  their  obstinacy  of  courage  and  vigor  of 
onset  is  well  illustrated  by  the  sea,  that  breaks  with  incessant  battery,  the 
dikes  of  Holland."— G. 

"  M  every  rustling  wind,  <kc.      If  Addison  had  been  a  more  open  ad- 
mirer of  the  Italian  poets,  I  should  have  suspected  him  of  havu)g  had  in 
his  eye  the  thirtj^-third  stanza  of  the  first  Canto  of  Orlando  Furioso : 
"  E'l  mover  dollo  fronde  e  di  verzure 

Che  di  cerri  scntia,  d"olmi  e  di  laggl, 

Fatco  lo  avea  con  subite  paure, 

Trovar  di  qxxh  e  di  la  strani  vlaggl ; 

Clie  ad  ogni  oinbra  veduta  in  monte  o  in  valle 

Temca  Kinaldo  aver  sempre  alle  spallc." — O. 

*  {Refuse  of  sioord%  and  gleanings  of  a  fight).  This  verse  and  tliose 
below  : — 21ie  growth  of  meadows,  and  the  pride  of  fields,  and,  The  food  of 
armies,  and  support  of  wars,  have  been  censured  by  the  critics,  not  alto- 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  1&3 

'Till  the  dark  cope  of  night  with  kind  embrace 
Befriends  the  rout,  and  covers  their  disgrace. 

To  Donawert,  ^  with  unresisted  force, 
The  gay  victorious  army  bends  its  course. 
The  growth  of  meadows,  and  the  pride  of  fields, 
Whatever  spoils  Bavaria's  summer  yields, 
(The  Danube's  great  increase)  Britannia  shares, 
The  food  of  armies,  and  support  of  wars  : 
With  magazines  of  death,  destructive  balls. 
And  cannons  doom'd  to  batter  Landau's  walls. 
The  victor  finds  each  hidden  cavern  stor'd. 
And  turns  their  fury  on  their  guilty  lord.  ^ 

Deluded  prince  !  ^  how  is  thy  greatness  crost. 
And  all  the  gaudy  dream  of  empire  lost, 

*  Donawert.  Donauwerth — on  the  left  bank  of  the  Danube — a  tete  de 
pont  connecting  the  defense  of  the  Lech  with  tliat  of  the  Rednitz,  and  a 
very  important  position  between  Uhn  and  Ratisbon,  at  the  crossing  of  the 
roads  from  the  Neckar  and  Mein  to  Augsburgh.  Here  the  verse  flags  again, 
and  this  short  paragraph  has  furnished  two  lines  to  the  "Art  of  sinking," 
viz. :  "The  growth  of  meadows,"  and  "The  food  of  armies."  "  The  macro- 
logy  and  pleonasm,"  says  Martinus  Scriblerus,  "  are  as  generally  coupled 
as  a  lean  rabbit  with  a  fat  one ;  nor  is  it  a  wonder,  the  superfluity  of 
words  and  vacuity  of  sense,  being  just  the  same  thing.  I  am  pleased  to 
see  one  of  our  greatest  adversaries  employ  this  figure." — G. 

"  VeneZjlancez  ces  foudres  que  leurs  mains  ont  forges. — Fontenoi. 

'  Deluded  prince.  The  Elector  of  Bavaria,  ally  of  Louis  XIV.  In  this 
paragraph  and  the  next,  the  verse  moves  smoothly,  with  occasional  passages 
of  vigor.  But  it  is  sad  to  think  that  a  man  like  Addison  could  be  so  misled 
by  national  and  party  prejudice,  as  to  speak  in  such  terms  of  the  horrible  de- 
vastation of  Bavaria.  Of  this  atrocious  deed,  Archdeacon  Coxe  coolly  says : 
"The  confederates  had  now  no  other  alternative  than  to  visit  the  offences 
of  the  prince  on  his  unfortunate  subjects.     Numerous  villages  were  burnt 


gether  without  reason,  yet  with  rather  too  much  severity ;  for  the  expres- 
sion rises  sometliing,  but  not  so  much  as  it  ought.  The  greatest  fault  is, 
that  three  such  verses  (each  of  which  is  only  passable)  si  and  so  near  to- 
gether: but  for  the  cause  of  this  defect  in  our  author's  rhymed  verse,  sea 
the  in  trod  ictojy  note  to  his  Latin  poems. 


184  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

That  proudly  set  tliee  on  a  fancy'd  throne, 

And  made  imaginary  realms  thy  own  ! 

Thy  troops  that  now  behind  the  Danube  join, 

Shall  shortly  seek  for  shelter  from  the  Rhine, 

Nor  find  it  there  :  Surrounded  with  alarms, 

Thou  hope'st  th'  assistance  *  of  the  Gallic  arms ; 

The  G-allic  arms  in  safety  shall  advance, 

And  crowd  thy  standards  with  the  power  of  France, 

While  to  exalt  thy  doom,  th'  aspiring  Gaul 

Shares  thy  destruction,  and  adorns  thy  fall. 

Unbounded  courage  and  compassion  join'd, 
Temp'ring  each  other  in  the  victor's  mind, 
Alternately  proclaim  him  good  and  great, 
•'       And  make  the  hero  and  the  man  compleat. 
Long  did  he  strive  th'  obdurate  foe  to  gain 
By  proffer'd  grace,  but  long  he  strove  in  vain ; 
'Till  fir'd  at  length,  he  thinks  it  vain  to  spare 
His  rising  wrath,  and  gives  a  loose  to  war. 
In  vengeance  rous'd,  the  soldier  fills  his  hand 
With  sword  and  fire,  and  ravages  the  land, 
A  thousand  villages  to  ashes  turns. 
In  crackling  flames  a  thousand  harvests  burns. 

or  destroyed,  and  the  whole  country  was  given  up  to  military  execution,  as 
far  as  the  vicinity  of  Munich."  It  is  but  fair  to  add  a  passage  from  one 
of  Max'lborough's  letters  to  his  wife :  "  We  sent  this  morning  3000  horse 
to  his  (the  elector's)  chief  city  of  Munich,  with  orders  to  burn  and  destroy 
all  the  country  about  it.  This  is  so  contrary  to  my  nature,  that  nothing 
but  absolute  necessity  could  have  obliged  me  to  consent  to  it,  for  those 
poor  people  suffer  for  their  master's  ambition.  There  having  been  no  war 
in  this  country  for  above  sixty  years,  their  towns  and  villages  are  so  clean 
that  you  would  be  pleased  with  them."  Coxe's  Memoirs  of  Marlborough, 
vol  1,  page  183.— G. 

•  TJiou  hope'st  th'  assistance.     Scarce  tolerable  in  the  expression,  bu* 
insupportable  in  the  sound. 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  .'85 

To  the  thick  woods  the  woolly  flocks  -^  retreat,         \ 
And  mixt  with  bellowing  herds  confus'dly  bleat ; 
Their  trembling  lords  the  common  shade  partake, 
And  cries  of  infants  sound  in  ev'ry  brake  : 
The  list'ning  soldier  ^  fixt  in  sorrow  stands. 
Loth  to  obey  his  leader's  just  commands  ; 
The  leader  grieves,  by  gen'rous  pity  sway'd, 
To  see  his  just  commands  so  well  obey'd 

But  now  the  trumpet,''  terrible  from  far, 
In  shriller  clangors  animates  the  war, 
Confed'rate  drums  in  fuller  consort  beat. 
And  echoing  hills  the  loud  alarm  repeat : 
G-allia's  proud  standards,  to  Bavaria's  join'd, 
Unfurl  their  gilded  lilies  in  the  wind ;       i^ 

'  The  listening  soldier.  A  fine  picture,  but  if  Bavarian  and  Frvuich 
testimony  were  taken,  it  would  probably  be  more  in  harmony  with  cer- 
tain passages  in  the  histories  of  the  English  wars  with  Scotland,  the  eon- 
current  testimony  of  Amei-ican  writers  concerning  their  conduct  during 
the  American  Revolution,  and  som^trong  statements  in  ISTapier's  Peninsu- 
lar war,  confirmed  by  the  correspondence  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. — G. 

'  But  now  the  trumpet.  Here  the  poet  rises  with  his  subject,  and  ap- 
proaches the  decisive  battle  with  much  spirit.  The  picture  of  the  various 
hopes  and  feelings  connected  with  the  "  fatal  day,"  is  finely  conceived, 
and  vigorously  drawn.  States  bemoaning  their  new  captivity,  and  armies 
of  martyrs  groaning  in  exile,  are  objects  sufficiently  distinct  and  definite 
to  address  themselves  directly  to  the  feelings.  And  the  feelings  once  en- 
listed, must  be  strongly  moved  by  the  ''sighs  and  prayers,"  the  natural 
expression  of  human  suffering,  and  thereby  definite  in  themselves,  but 
acquiring,  as  they  rise  from  the  "  depths  of  gloomy  dungeons,"  and  burst 
from  the  soul  in  its  bitterness,  somewhat  of  that  mystery  which  is  so 
pleasing  to  an  excited  imagination.  But  I  wish  he  had  stopped  here. 
"Europe"  is  too  definite  an  idea  to  follow  those  mysterious  sighs  and 
prayers ;  the  next  line  was  not  written  for  posterity,  and,  to  say  the  least, 
it  is  not  very  pious  to  assert  that  Heaven  had  been  waiting  for  the  battle 
of  Blenheim,  to  show  "his  care  and  conduct"  of  human  events. — G. 


»  Th-e  woolly  fock.     The  "  Lanifferce  pecwles"  of  Lucretius. 


186        POEMS   ON   SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 

The  daring  prince  his  blasted  hope^  renews, 
And  while  the  thick  embattled  host  he  views 
Stretcht  out  in  deep  array,  and  dreadful  length, 
His  heart  dilates,  and  glories  in  his  strength. 

The  fatal  day  its  mighty  course  began, 
That  the  griev'd  world  had  long  desir'd  in  vain : 
States  that  their  new  captivity  bemoan'd, 
Armies  of  martyrs  that  in  exile  groan'd. 
Sighs  from  the  depth  of  gloomy  dungeons  heard. 
And  prayers  in  bitterness  of  soulpreferr'd 
Europe's  loud  cries,  that  Providence  assail'd. 
And  Anna's  ardent  vows,  at  length  prevail'd ; 
The  day  was  come  when  heaven  design'd  to  show 
His  care  and  conduct  of  the  world  below. 

Behold  in  awful  march ^  and  dread  array 
The  long-extended  squadrons  shape  their  way  t 
Death,  in  approaching  terrible,  imparts 
An  anxious  horror  to  the  bravest  hearts ; 
Yet  do  their  beating  breasts  demand  the  strife. 
And  thirst  of  glory  quells  the  love  of  life. 
No  vulgar  fears  can  British  minds  controul : 
Heat  of  revenge,  and  noble  pride  of  soul 
O'erlook  the  foe,  advantag'd  by  his  post. 
Lessen  his  numbers  and  contract  his  host : ' 
Tho'  fens  and  floods  possest  the  middle  space. 
That  unprovok'd  they  would  have  fear'd  to  pass ; 
Nor  fens  nor  floods  can  stop  Britannia's  bands, 
When  her  proud  foe  rang'd  on  their  borders  stands. 

'  Behold  in  awful  march.  Tlie  details  of  this  battle  were  so  familiar 
when  these  lines  were  written,  that  few  readers,  probably,  would  have 
complained  of  tliis  paragfaph  as  too  general  for  effective  description. — G. 

*  Lessen  his  numbers  and  contract  his  host.  On  record  in  "  the  Art  of 
•jinking." — Gr. 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  187 

But  0,  my  muse/  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  join'd  ! 
Me  thinks  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous  sound 
The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound, 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  skies, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise. 
'Twas  then  great  Marlbro's  mighty  soul  was  prov'd,^ 
That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmov'd, 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair, 
Examin'd  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war ; 
In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  survey'd. 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Tnspir'd  repuls'd  battalions  to  engage. 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 
So  when  an  angel  ^  by  divine  command 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 

*  But  0,  my  muse.  "  Introductions  of  this  kind  are  a  forced  attempt 
ni  a  writer  to  spur  up  himself  and  his  reader,  when  he  finds  his  imagi- 
nation begin  to  flag." — Blair. 

'  ^Twas  then  great  Marlborough.     Here  we  have  a  fine  confirmation  of 
Johnson's  remarks  concerning  the  nature  of  the  real  excellence  of  this 
poem.     How  much  nobler  Marlborough  appears  in  these  lines,  than  when 
represented  as  "  plunging  through  seas  of  blood."     Vide  sup.  note,   and 
compare  in  the  poem  of  "Fontenoi,"  the  picture  of  Louis  and  Cumberland. 
"  Le  fler  Cumberland  fler  d'attaquer  Loais 
A  deja  dispo86  ses  bataillons  hardis : 
Tels  ne  parurent  point,  &c." 
and  in  another  passage — 

"  Son  courage  n'est  point  cet  instinct  furieux.— G. 

*  So  ichen  an  angel.  It  was  at  this  point  that  Addison  carried  his 
manuscript  to  the  Lord  Treasurer,  and  •received  hi»  first  public  office — 
Commissioner  of  Appeals.  Nothing,  perhap?,  gives  a  more  striking  idea  of 
the  fluctuations  of  public  taste  than  the  attention  that  has  been  bestowed 
upon  this  passage.  In  tlie  Tatler  it  is  said  to  be  "  one  of  the  noblest 
thoughts  that  ever  entered  into  the  heart  of  man."  Johnson  enters  into 
a  long  disquisition  to  prove  that,  though  these  lines  are  just  and  noble, 
they  do  not  contain  a  proper  simile,  the  action  ascribed  to  Marlborough 


# 


188        rOEMS  ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS 

Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past,  * 
Calm  and  serene  lie  drives  the  furious  blast ; 
And,  pleas'd  th'  Almighty's  orders  to  perform, 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm. 

But  see  the  haughty  household-troops  advance  !  * 
The  dread  of  Europe,  and  the  pride  of  France. 


^* 


being  precisely  the  same  with  that  ascribed  to  the  angel,  while  "  a  poetica. 
simile  consists  in  the  discovery  of  likeness  between  two  actions,  in  their  gen- 
eral natm*e  and  disposition  dissimilar,  or  of  causes,  terminating  by  different 
operations  in  some  resemblance  of  effect."  Even  the  learned  Micliaelis 
found  time  to  write : — "  This  is  a  fiction  neitlier  agreeable  to  the  senti- 
ments of  a  Christian,  an  Oriental,  a  Greek,  nor  a  Roman ;  nor  so  adapted 
to  the  judgment  of  the  senses  (which  look  for  something  more  magnificent 
in  so  terrible  a  juncture),  as  to  deserve  to  be  introduced  against  the  opin- 
ion of  almost  all  nations  who  make  thunder  to  be  the  prerogative  of  the 
Supreme  Being  only,"  This  severe  sentence  called  forth  a  minute  confu- 
tation. Macaulay  says : — ""We  will  not  dispute  the  general  justice  of 
Johnson's  remarks  on  this  passage.  But  we  must  point  out  one  circum- 
Rtance  which  seems  to  have  escaped  all  the  critics.  The  extraordinary  ef- 
fect which  this  simile  produced  when  it  first  appeared,  and  which  to  the 
following  generation  seemed  inexplicable,  is  doubtless  to  be  chiefly  attrib- 
uted to  a  line  which  most  readers  now  regard  as  a  feeble  parenthesis : 

"  Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  pass'd." 
Addison  spoke  not  of  a  storm,  but  of  the  storm.  Thfj  great  tempest  ol 
November,  1703,  the  only  tempest  which  in  our  latitude  has  equalled  the 
rage  of  a  tropical  hurricane,  had  left  a  dreadful  recollection  in  the  minds 
of  all  men.  The  popularity  which  the  simile  of  the  angel  enjoyed  among 
Addison's  contemporaries,  has  always  seemed  to  us  to  be  a  remarkable  in- 
stance of  the  advantage  which,  in  rhetoric  and  poetry,  the  particular  has 
over  the  general."  In  one  thing  Mr,  M.  is  mistaken — the  reference  to  the 
November  gale  had  already  been  pointed  out.  There  is  a  burlesque  accu- 
sation of  plagiarism  extracted  in  the  Addisoniana,  which  the  editor  of  those 
agreeable  volumes  has  mistaken  for  serious  criticism, — G, 

^  But  see  the  haughti/ household^roops  advance. —  Vain  insolence — coti- 

"  Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past.  This  line  lias  been  censured 
by  a  very  good  judge,  as  nnpoetical :  (see  Dr.  Beattie's  Notes,  prefixed  to 
his  edition  of  Mr.  Addison's  papei'S,  in  4  vols.,  vol.  1,  ]).  21, — ed,  1790.)  It 
may  be  so:  but  the  allusion  is  fine  and  proper.  For  when  the  avenging 
angel  rides  in  s^ich  a  storm,  the  danger  is  brought  home  to  ourselves,  and 
the  poet's  iniagery  is  not  only  great,  but  interesting ;  that  is,  we  have 
the  sublime  in  perfection. 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  189 

The  war's  whole  art  each  private  soldier  knows 
And  with  a  gen'ral's  love  of  conquest  glows  ; 
Proudly  he  marches  on,  and  void  of  fear 
Laughs  at  the  shaking  of  the  British  spear  :  * 
Yain  insolence  !  with  native  freedom  brave 
The  meanest  Briton  scorns  the  highest  slave  ; 
Contempt  and  fury  fire  their  souls  by  turns, 
Each  nation's  glory  in  each  warrior  burns. 
Each  fights,  as  in  his  arm  th'  important  day 
And  all  the  fate  of  his  great  monarch  lay : 
A  thousand  glorious  actions,  that  might  claim 
Triumphant  laurels,  and  immortal  fame, 
Confus'd  in  crowds  of  glorious  actions  lie, 
And  troops  of  heroes  undistinguish'd  die. 
0  Dormer,^  how  can  I  behold  thy  fate, 
And  not  the  wonders  of  thy  youth  relate  ! 

tempt  &c.,  &c.     Yoltaire  has  here  the  advantage  as  a  philosopher,  and  per- 
haps, too,  as  a  poet — and  the  just  appreciation  with  which  he  speaks  of 
the  English  is  a  striking  commentary  upon  the  tone  of  self-glorification, 
attributed  by  English  and  American  writers  to  the  French — 
"Les  voila  ces  rivaux  du  grand  nom  dc  mon  maitre, 

Plus  farouches  que  nous,  aussi  vaillans  peut-etre — 

Maison  du  roi  I  marchez,  assurez  la  victoire, 

Phalanges  de  Louis,  6crazez  sous  vos  coups, 

Ces  combattans  si  fiers  et  si  dignes  de  vousj" — G. 

^0  Dormer.    A  beautiful  passage.    And  the  thought  with  which  it  closes 
is  more  just  perhaps  than  that  which  Yoltaire  attributes  to  Grammont — 

"  Grammont  dans  TElys^e  cmporte  la  douleur, 
D'ignorer  en  mourant  si  son  maitre  est  vainqneur." 

"  VoiU  un  sentiment,"  says  the  witty  poet  in  a  letter  which  he  attributes 
to  a  'fine  lady' — "que  je  n'ai  vu  dans  aucun  des  petits  romans  que  je  lis.. 
Je  voudrais  bien  savoir  si  on  a  de  ces  idees-la  quand  on  a  la  cuisse  emportde 
d'un  boulet  de  canon:  on  me  repond  d  cela  que  le  due  de  Grammont  aimait 
v6ritablement  le  rpi,  et  qu'il  pouvait  tres  bien  avoir  eu  de  pareils  senti- 
mens  a  sa  mort.  Faible  reponse,  miserable  Evasion  dont  vous  sentez  la 
petitesse!     Voltaire,  CEuvres,  vol.  13,  p.  190,  ed.  de  1838.— G. 

»  Lauffha  at  the  shaking  of  the  British  spear.     The  Book  of  Job  fur- 
nished liim  with  this  idea — he  laugheth  at  the  shaking  of  a  spear,  xli.  29. 


/ 


190  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

How  can  I  see  the  gay,  the  brave,  the  young, 
Fall  in  the  cloud  of  war  and  lie  unsung ! 
In  joys  of  conquest  he  resigns  his  breath, 
And,  fill'd  with  England's  glory,  smiles  in  death. 

The  rout  begins,  the  Gallic  squadrons  run, 
Compell'd  in  crowds  to  meet  the  fate  they  shun ; 
Thousands  of  fiery  steeds  with  wounds  transfix'd 
Floating  in  gore,  with  their  dead  masters  mixt, 
Midst  heaps  of  spears  and  standards  driv'n  around, 
Lie  in  the  Danube's  bloody  whirl-pools  drown'd, 
Troops  of  bold  youths,  born  on  the  distant  Soane, 
Or  sounding  borders  of  the  rapid  Rhone, 
Or  where  the  Seine  her  flow'ry  fields  divides, 
Or  where  the  Loire  through  winding  vineyards  glides ; 
In  heaps  the  rolling  billows  sweep  away, 
And  into  Scythian  seas  their  bloated  corps  convey. 
From  Blenheim's  tow'rs  ^  the  Gaul,  with  wild  afi"right, 
Beholds  the  various  havock  of  the  fight ; 
His  waving  banners,  that  so  oft  had  stood 
Planted  in  fields  of  death,  and  streams  of  blood, 
So  wont  the  guarded  enemy  to  reach. 
And  rise  triumphant  in  the  fatal  breach. 
Or  pierce  the  broken  foe's  remotest  lines, 
The  hardy  veteran  with  tears  resigns. 

*  From  Blenheims  towers.  A  body  of  eleven  thousand  men  of  the  best 
troops  of  France,  were  left  shut  up  in  Blenlieim  without  orders.  When, 
after  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  disengage  themselves  fi-om  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  town,  they  found  themselves  compelled  by  their  position  to 
lay  down  their  arms,  they  broke  out  in  indignation  against  the  want  of 
judgment  which  had  exposed  them  to  this  disgrace.  The  regiment  of  Na- 
varre tore  up  their  colors  and  buried  them,  to  prevent  them  from  fulling 
into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  or,  according  to  other  authorities,  burnt  up 
their  colors  and  buried  their  arms. — G. 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  191 

Unfortunate  Tallard  !'  Oli  who  can  name 
The  pangs  of  rage,  of  sorrow,  and  of  shame, 
That  with  mixt  tumult  in  thy  bosom  swell'd  ! 
When  first  thou  saw'st  thy  bravest  troops  repell'd, 
Thine  only  son  pierc'd  with  a  deadly  wound, 
Chok'd  in  his  blood,  and  gasping  on  the  ground, 
Thyself  in  bondage  by  the  victor  kept ! 
The  chief,  the  father,  and  the  captive  wept. 
An  English  muse  is  touch' d  with  gen'rous  woe, 
And  in  th'  unhappy  man  forgets  the  foe. 
G-reatly  distrest !  thy  loud  complaints  forbear, 
Blame  not  the  turns  of  fate,  and  chance  of  war ; 
Give  thy  brave  foes  their  due,  nor  blush  to  own 
The  fatal  field  by  such  great  leaders  won,  ^ 
The  field  whence  fam'd  Eugenie  bore  away  ^ 
Only  the  second  honours  of  the  day. 

With  floods  of  gore  that  from  the  vanquish'd  fell^ 
The  marshes  stagnate  and  the  rivers  swell. 
Mountains  of  slain  lie  heap'd  upon  the  ground. 
Or,  'midst  the  roarings  of  the  Danube  drown'd ; 
Whole  captive  hosts  the  conqueror  detains 
In  painful  bondage,  and  inglorious  chains  ; 
Ev'n  those  who  'scape  the  fetters  and  the  sword, 
Nor  seek  the  fortunes  of  a  happier  lord, 

^  Unfortunate  Tallard.  Tallard  was  so  short-siglited,  that  in  going  to 
rally  some  of  his  own  squadrons,  he  mistook  a  body  of  the  enemy's  troopa 
for  his  own,  and  was  made  prisoner. — G. 

'  The  fatal  field  by  such  great  leaders  won.  "Si  ton  mattre  avait  beau- 
coup  de  soldiits  cornme  toi,  il  serait  invincible,"  said  Marlborough  to  a  pris- 
oneo  whose  bravery  in  the  battle  had  attracted  his  attention.  "  Ce  ne  sont 
pas  les  soldats  comme  moi  qui  lui  manquent,"  was  the  reply.  "  Ce  sont 
des  generaux  comme  vous." — G. 

'  "  The  field  whence  fained  Eugenia.    Marlborough  had  already  broken  the 
French  right  an  hour  before  Eugene  could  get  into  action  on  the  left. — G 


192  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

Their  raging  king  dishonours,  to  compleat 
Marlbro's  great  work,  and  finish  the  defeat. 

From  Memminghen's  high  domes,  and  Augsburg's  walls^ 
The  distant  battle  drives  th'  insulting  Gauls, 
Free'd  by  the  terror  of  the  victor's  name 
The  rescu'd  states  his  great  protection  claim ; 
Whilst  Ulm  th'  approach  of  her  deliverer  waits, 
And  longs  to  open  her  obsequious  gates.  ^ 

The  hero's  breast  *  still  swells  with  great  designs, 
In  ev'ry  thought  the  tow'ring  genius  shines  : 
If  to  the  foe  his  dreadful  course  he  bends, 
O'er  the  wide  continent  his  march  extends  ; 
If  sieges  in  his  lab'ring  thoughts  are  form'd, 
Camps  are  assaulted,  and  an  army  storm'd ; 
If  to  the  fight  his  active  soul  is  bent. 
The  fate  of  Europe  turns  on  its  event. 
What  distant  land,  what  region  can  afford 
An  action  worthy  his  victorious  sword  : 
Where  will  he  next  the  flying  Gaul  defeat. 
To  make  the  series  of  his  toils  compleat  ? 
^  Where  the  swoln  Rhine,  ^  rushing  with  all  its  forco, 

Divides  the  hostile  nations  in  its  course. 
While  each  contracts  its  bounds,  or  wider  grows, 
Eniarg'd  or  straiten'd  as  the  river  flows. 
On  Gallia's  side  a  mighty  bulwark  *  stands, 
That  all  the  wide  extended  plain  commands  ; 

*  And  longs  to  open  her  obsequious  gates.  The  expression  seems  almost 
prophetic,  and  would  apply  with  equal  propriety  to  the  surrender  of 
Mack,— G. 

'  The  hero's  breast.  In  this  paragraph  tlie  poet  seems  to  have  been 
as  much  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  as  his  hero  was  what  to  do. — G. 

^  Where  the  swoln  Uhlne.  A  vigorous  line,  intentionally  roughened  by 
the  alliteration,  Rhine  rushing. — G. 

*  On  Gallia's  side  a  mighty  bulwark.     The  fortress  of  Landau — now  one 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  193 

Twice,  since  the  war  was  kindled,  has  it  try'd 
The  victor's  rage,  and  twice  has  chang'd  its  side ; 
As  oft  whole  armies,  with  the  prize  o'erjoy'd 
Have  the  long  summer  on  its  walls  employ'd. 
Hither  our  mighty  chief  his  arms  directs, 
Hence  future  triumphs  from  the  war  expects ; 
And  tho'  the  dog-star  had  its  course  begun 
Carries  his  arms  still  nearer  to  the  sun : 
Fixt  on  the  glorious  action,  he  forgets 
The  change  of  seasons,  and  increase  of  heats  :  — 

No  toils  are  painful  that  can  danger  show, 
No  climes  unlovely,  that  contain  a  foe. 
.    The  roving  Gaul,  to  his  own  bounds  restrain'd, 
Learns  to  encamp  within  his  native  land. 
But  soon  as  the  victorious  host  he  spies, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  stream  to  stream  he  flies : 
Such  dire  impressions  in  his  heart  remain 
♦  Of  Marlbro's  sword,  and  Hocstet's  fatal  plain  : 
In  vain  Britannia's  mighty  chief  besets  V 

Their  shady  coverts,  and  obscure  retreats  ;^  .'n.,^^ 

They  fly  the  conqueror's  approaching  fame,  ^ 

That  bears  the  force  of  armies  in  his  name. 

Austria's  young  monarch,*  whose  imperial  sway 
Sceptres  and  thrones  are  destin'd  to  obey, 
Whose  boasted  ancestry  so  high  extends 
That  in  the  pagan  gods  his  lineage  ends, 
Comes  from  afai-,  in  gratitude  to  own 
The  great  supporter  of  his  father's  throne  ; 

tf  the  fortresses  of  tlio  Germanic  confederation.     The   works  were  con- 
Btructed  by  Vauban. — G. ' 

*  Aitstria's  young  monarch.     Joseph,  King  of  the  Romans,  son  of  tb« 
Emperor  Leopold.     He  joined  the  army  before  Landau. — G: 

VOL.  I. — 9 


194  POEMS      ON      SEVERAL      OCCASIONS. 

What  tides  of  glory  ^  to  his  bo»om  ran, 
Clasp 'd  in  th'  embraces  of  the  god-like  man  ! 
How  were  his  eyes  with  pleasing  wonder  fixt 
To  see  such  fire  with  so  much  sweetness  mixt, 
Such  easy  greatness,  such  a  graceful  port, 
So  turn'd  and  finish'd  for  the  camp  or  court ! 
Achilles  thus  ^  was  form'd  with  ev'ry  grace, 
And  Nireus  shone  but  in  the  second  place  ; 
Thus  the  great  father  of  almighty  Rome 
(Divinely  flusht  with  an  immortal  bloom 
That  Cytherea's  fragrant  breath  bestow'd) 
In  all  the  charms  of  his  bright  mother  glow'd. 

The  royal  youth  by  Marlbro's  presence  charm'd, 
Taught  by  his  counsels,  by  his  actions  warm'd. 
On  Landau  with  redoubled  fury  falls, 
Discharges  all  his  thunder  on  its  walls, 
O'er  mines  and  caves  of  death  provokes  the  fight, 
And  learns  to  conquer  in  the  hero's  sight. 

The  British  chief,  for  mighty  toils  renown'd, 
Incroas'd  in  titles,  and  with  conquests  crown'd, 
To  Belgian  coasts^  his  tedious  march  renews 
And  the  long  windings  of  the  Rhine  pursues. 
Clearing  its  borders  from  usurping  foes. 
And  blest  by  rescu'd  nations  as  he  goes. 

^  What  tides  of  glory.  Another  striking  illustration  of  the  facility  with 
which  great  writers  can  write  nonsense,  when  they  feel  obliged  to  say 
something  without  knowing  exactly  what. — G. 

'  Achilles  thus.  "When  Addison,  having  celebrated  the  beauty  of 
Marlborough's  person,  tells  us  that  'Achilles  thus  was  formed  with  every 
grace,'  here  is  no  simile,  but  a  mere  exemplification." — Johnson.  This  is  n 
compliment  which  history  will  not  dispute.  While  serving  under  Turenne, 
he  had  been  known  as  the  'bel  Anglais,'  an  expression  fully  justified  by 
Kneller's  portrait. — G. 

•  2b  Belgian  coasts.  This  march  enabled  Marlborough  to  establish  his 
winter-quarters  on  the  Moselle,  "  which,"  he  says  in  a  letter  to  the  Lord 


THE      CAMPAIGN.  195 

Treves  fears  no  more/  freed  from  its  dire  alarms ; 
And  Traerbach  feels  the  terror  of  his  arms/ 
Seated  on  rocks  her  proud  foundations  shake,x 
While  Marlbro'  presses  to  the  bold  attack,      ^T"^ 
Plants  all  his  batt'ries,  bids  his  cannon  roar, 
And  shows  how  Landau  might  have  fall'n  before. 
Scar'd  at  his  near  approach,  great  Louis  fears 
Vengeance  reserv'd  for  his  declining  years. 
Forgets  his  thirst  of  universal  sway. 
And  scarce  can  teach  his  subjects  to  obey  ; 
His  arms  he  finds  on  vain  attempts  employ'd, 
Th'  ambitious  projects  for  his  race  destroy'd, 
The  work  of  ages  sunk  in  one  campaign,' 
And  lives  of  millions  sacrific'd  in  vain. 

Such  are  th'  effects  of  Anna's  royal  cares  : 
By  her,  Britannia,  great  in  foreign  wars. 
Ranges  through  nations,  wheresoe'er  disjoin'd,-* 
"Without  the  wonted  aid  of  sea  and  wind. 
By  her  th'  unfetter'd  Ister's  states  are  free. 
And  taste  the  sweets  of  English  liberty ; 

Treasurer  Godolphin,  "  will  give  France  as  much  uneasiness  iw  any  thing 
that  has  been  done  this  summer." — G-. 

*  Treves  fears  no  more. — ^The  French  garrison  of  300  men,  on  heanng 
of  Marlborough's  approach,  abandoned  the  fort  which  commanded  the 
town. — G. 

"  Traerbach  feels  the  terror  of  his  arms.  There  is  some  exaggeration 
in  this  account  of  the  siege  of  Traerbach.  The  French  garrison  consisted 
of  only  600  men,  and  the  siege  was  conducted  by  the  Prince  of  Hesse. — G. 

^  27ie  work  of  ages  sunk  in  one  campaign.  A  gross  exaggeration ;  for, 
though  Louis  XIV.  was  defeated,  humbled,  and  reduced  to  the  greatest 
straits,  the  great  conquests  of  his  reign,  Franche-Comt^,  Flanders,  and 
Alsace  still  remain  untouched. — G. 

*  Ranges  through  nations,  &c.  If  this^  had  been  said  after  Fulton,  it 
would  probably  be  supposed  to  mean  that  Britannia  ranged  through  na- 
tions by  means  of  steamboats.  As  it  stands,  it  must  be  taken  for  a  somewhat 
circuitous  way  of  saying  that  her  armies  marched  wherever  they  chose. — G. 


196        POEMS  ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS. 

But  who  can  tell  the  joys  of  those  that  lie 
Beneath  the  constant  influence  of  her  eye  ! 
Whilst  in  diffusive  show'rs  her  bounties  fall 
Like  heaven's  indulgence,  and  descend  on  all, 
Secure  the  happy,  succour  the  distrest, 
^  JIaO'   Make  ev'ry  subject  glad,  and  a  whole  people  blest. 
J  Thus  wou'd  I  fain  Britannia's  wars  rehearse, 

\    ^fc—-.^,      jjj  ^jjg  smooth  records  of  a  faithful  verse  ; 
That,  if  such  numbers  can  o'er  time  prevail, 
May  tell  posterity  the  wond'rous  tale. 
"When  actions,  *  unadorn'd, '  are  faint  and  weak, 
Cities  and  countries  must  be  taught  to  speak ; 
Gods  may  descend  in  factions  from  the  skies, 
\^SA.nd  rivers  from  their  oozy  beds  arise; 
^  'Fiction  may  deck  the  truth  with  spurious  rays, 
/   And  round  the  hero  cast  a  borrow'd  blaze. 
Marlbro's  exploits  appear  divinely  bright, 
And  proudly  shine  in  their  own  native  light ; 
Rais'd  of  themselves,  their  genuine  charms  they  boast, 
And  those  who  paint  'em  truest  praise  'em  most.  * 

^  When  actions  unadorned,  &e.  Voltaire  in  the  "Discours  pr^liminaire  " 
to  his  poem  oa  the  battle  of  Fontenoi,  justifies  his  limited  use  of  fictitious 
personages,  by  the  example  of  Addison.  "  C'<5tait  ce  que  sentait  M.  Addi- 
son, bon  poete  et  critique  judicieux.  II  employa  dans  son  poeme,  qui  a 
immortalise  la  campagne  de  Hochstadt,  beaucoup  moins  de  fictions  qu'on 
ne  s'en  est  permis  dans  le  Poeme  de  Fontenoi.  II  savait  que  le  due  de 
Marlborough  et  le  prince  Eugc^ne  se  seraient  triis  peu  souci^s  de  voir  des 
dieux  ou  il  6tait  question  des  grandes  actions  des  homraes;  il  savait  qu'on 
r^l^ve  par  I'invention,  les  exploits  de  I'antiquit^,  et  qu'on  court  risque  d'af- 
faiblir  ceux  des  modernes  par  de  froides  allegories ;  il  a  fait  mieux,  il  a 
int6ress6  I'Europe  entii^re  A,  son  action." — Voltaire,  QCuvres  v. — 11,  p.  164. 

"  "He  best  can  paint  them  who  shall  feel  them  most." — Eloisa  to  Abelard. 

■  Wh£n  actions,  <fec.  An  apology,  gracefully  enough  made  for  the 
prosaic  plan  of  tliis  poem:  for  though  the  author's  itivention  had  not 
supplied  hira  with  a  better,  his  true  taste  could  not  but  tell  him,  this  was 
defective. 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 


TRANSLATION  OF  PSALM  XXTIT. ' 


The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  the  shepherds's  care 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye ; 
My  noon  day  walks  He  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 


When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant, 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads, 
My  weary  wand'ring  steps  he  leads ; 
Where  peaceful  rivers  soft  and  slow. 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

III. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread. 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 
For  thou,  0  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid. 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade 

This  piece  was  firat  published  in  the  Spectator. — G 


200  MISCELLANEOUS      P  O^E  M  S  . 

IV. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile  : 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  erown'd 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 


I. 
When  all  thy  mercies,  0  my  God, 

My  rising  soul  suiTeys ; 
Transported  with  the  yiew,  I'm  lost 

In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

II. 
0  how  shall  words  with  equal  warmth 

The  gratitude  declare. 
That  glows  within  my  ravish'd  heart  ? 

But  thou  canst  read  it  there. 

III. 
Thy  providence  my  life  sustain'd, 

And  all  my  wants  redrest. 
When  in  the  silent  womb  I  lay. 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

IV. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  ones, 

Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 
Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learnt 

To  form  themselves  in  pray'r. 

*  Originally  published  iu  the  Spectator. — G. 


HYMN.  201 

V. 

Unnumber'd  comforts  to  my  soul 

Thy  tender  care  bestow'd, 
Before  my  infant  heart  conceiv'd 

From  whom  these  comforts  flow'd. 

VI.  ' 

When  in  the  slipp'ry  paths  of  youth 

With  heedless  steps  I  ran,  V 

Thine  arm  unseen  convey'd  me  safe 
And  led  me  up  to  man. 

VII. 

Through  hidden  dangers,  toils,  and  deaths,  I 

It  gently  clear'd  my  way, 
And  through  the  pleasing  snares  of  vice, 

More  to  be  fear'd  than  they. 

VIII. 

When  worn  with  sickness,  oft  hast  thou  ^ 

With  health  renew'd  my  face  ; 
And  when  in  sins  and  sorrows  sunk,    • 

Reviv'd  my  soul  with  grace. 

IX. 

Thy  bounteous  hand  with  worldly  bliss 

Has  made  my  cup  run  o'er. 
And  in  a  kind  and  faithful  friend 

Has  doubled  all  my  store. 

X. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  precious  gifts 

My  daily  thanks  employ  ; 
Nor  is  the  least  a  cheerful  heart, 

That  tastes  those  gifts  with  joy. 

VOL.   I. — 9* 


202  MISCELLANEOUS      POEMS. 


XI. 


Through  every  period  of  my  life 
Thy  goodness  I'll  pursue ; 

And  after  death,  in  distant  worlds, 
The  glorious  theme  renew. 

XII. 

When  nature  fails,  and  day  and  night 
Divide  thy  works  no  more, 

My  ever  grateful  heart,  0  Lord, 
Thy  mercy  shall  adore. 

XIII. 

Through  all  eternity  to  Thee 

A  joyful  song  I'll  raise ; 
For  oh !  eternity's  too  short 

To  utter  all  thy  praise.  • 


DIVINE    ODE 


The  spacious  firmament  on  high,'  , 
With  all  the  blue  aethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim  : 
Th'  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day. 
Does  his  Creator's  pow'r  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

'  Originally  published  in  the  Spectator. — G. 


DIVINEODE.  .  203 

II. 

Soon  as  the  ev'ning  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wond'rous  tale, 

And  nightly  to  the  list'ning  earth, 

Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  : 

Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 

And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole.  , 

III. 
What  though  in  solemn  silence,  all  *  • 

Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though,  nor  real  voice  nor  sound         i> 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice. 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice. 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.  • 


DIVINE    ODE 


How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ! 
Eternal  Wisdom  is  their  guide. 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

*  Published  in  the  Spectator  as  a  '  Divine  Ode,'  made  by  a  gentleman 
the  conclusion  of  his  travels. — G. 


204  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMb 


II. 


In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care, 
Through  burning  climes  I  pass'd  unhurt, 

And  breath'd  in  tainted  air. 


HL 


Thy  mercy  sweeten'd  every  soil, 
Made  every  region  please : 

The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warm'd, 
And  smooth'd  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 


IV. 


Think,  O  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 
How  with  affrighted  eyes, 

Thou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep' 
In  all  its  horrors  rise  ! 


Confusion  dwelt  in  ev'ry  face. 

And  fear  in  ev'ry  heart, 
"When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  on  gulfs, 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 

VI. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free, 
Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  pray'r 

My  soul  took  hold  on  ihee. 

*  The  allusion  in  these  lines  is  to  a  violent  gale  he  encountered  iu  his 
Italian  tour, — Vide  Life. — G. 


DIVINE      ODE.  205 

VII. 

For  thougli  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

VIII. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retir'd, 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea  that  roar'd  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

IX. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death, 

Thy  goodness  I'll  adore, 
And' praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 


My  life,  if  thou  preserv'st  my  life. 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee  ! 


HYMN.i 


"When  rising  from  the  bed  of  death, 
O'erwhelm'd  with  guilt  and  fear, 

I  see  my  Maker  face  to  face, 
0  how  shall  I  appear  ! 

'  Originally  published  in  the  Spectator. 


206  MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 

II. 

If  yet,  while  pardon  may  be  found, 
And  mercy  may  be  sought. 

My  heart  with  inward  horror  shrinks, 
And  trembles  at  the  thought. 

m. 
When  thou,  0  Lord,  shall  stand  disclosed, 

In  majesty  severe. 
And  sit  in  judgment  on  my  soul, 

0  how  shall  I  appear ! 

IV. 

But  thou  hast  told  the  troubled  mind, 
Who  does  her  sins  lament, 

The  timely  tribute  of  her  tears 
Shall  endless  wo  prevent. 

V. 

Then  see  the  sorrow  of  my  heart, 

Ere  yet  it  be  too  late ; 
And  hear  my  Saviour's  dying  groans, 

To  give  those  sorrows  weight. 

VI. 

For  never  shall  my  soul  despair, 

Her  pardon  to  procure. 
Who  knows  thy  only  Son  has  died 

To  make  her  pardon  sure. 


A   SONG  FOR   ST.   CECILIA^S   DAY, 

AT  OXFORD,  a 


Cecilia,  whose  exalted  hymns, 

With  joy  and  wonder  fill  the  blest, 
In  choirs  of  warbling  seraphims, 

Known  and  distinguish'd  from  the  rest, 
Attend,  harmonious  saint,  and  see 
Thy  vocal  sons  of  harmony ; 
Attend,  harmonious  saint,  and  hear  our  pray'rs ; 

Enliven  all  our  earthly  airs. 
And,  as  thou  sing'st  thy  God,  teach  us  to  sing  of  thee 

Tune  ev'ry  string  and  ev'ry  tongue. 
Be  thou  the  muse  and  subject  of  our  song. 

II. 
Let  all  Cecilia's  praise  proclaim, 
Employ  the  echo  in  her  name. 
Hark  how  the  flutes  and  trumpets  raise. 
At  bright  Cecilia's  name,  their  lays  ; 


*  The  success  of  Alexander's  Feast,  made  it  fashionable  for  succeeding 
poets,  to  try  their  hand  at  a  musical  ode :  but  they  mistook  the  matter, 
when  they  thought  it  enough  to  contend  with  Mr.  Dryden.  It  was  re- 
served for  one  or  two  of  our  days  to  give  us  a  true  idea  of  lyric  poetry  in 
English. 

[Hurd  probably  alludes  to  Collins  and  Gray,  who,  however,  with  all 
their  merit,  still  leave  "Alexander's  feast,"  the  first  lyric  in  the  language. 
Johnson  speaks  of  this  in  higher  terms  than  any  other  critic  I  have  seen, 
and  says  that  it  wa?  partly  imitated  by  Pope,  and  has  something  of  Dry- 
den's  force. — G.] 


208  MISCELLANEOUS      POEMS. 

The  organ  labours  in  her  praise. 
Cecilia's  name  does  all  our  numbers  grace, 
From  ev'ry  voice  tbe  tuneful  accents  fly, 
In  soaring  trebles  now  it  rises  high, 
And  now  it  sinks,  and  dwells  upon  the  base. 
Cecilia's  name  through  all  the  notes  we  sing, 
The  work  of  ev'ry  skilful  tongue, 
The  sound  of  ev'ry  trembling  string. 
The  sound  and  triumph  of  our  song. 

nL 
For  ever  consecrate"  the  day, 
To  music  and  Cecilia  ; 
Music,  the  greatest  good  tliat  mortals  know, 
^  And  all  of  heav'n  we  have  below. 

Music  can  noble  hints  impart. 
Engender  fury,  kindle  love ; 
With  unsuspected  eloquence  can  move, 

And  manage  all  the  man  with  secret  art. 
When  Orpheus  strikes  the  trembling  lyre, 
The  streams  stand  still,  the  stones  admire ; 
The  list'ning  savages  advance, 
/     The  wolf  and  lamb  around  him  trip. 
1     The  bears  in  aukward  measures  leap, 
And  tigers  mingle  in  the  dance. 
The  moving  woods  attended,  as  he  play'd. 
And  Rhodope  was  left  without  a  shade. 

IV. 

Music  religious  heats  inspires. 

It  wakes  the  soul,  and  lifts  it  high. 

And  wings  it  with  sublime  desires. 
And  fits  it  to  bespeak  the  Deity. 


A      SONG      FOR      ST.      CECILIa's      DAY.  209 

Th'  Almighty  listens  to  a  tuneful  tongue, 

And  seems  well  pleas'd  and  courted  with  a  song. 
Soft  moving  sounds  and  heav'nly  airs 
Give  force  to  ev'ry  word,  and  recommend  our  pray'rs. 

When  time  itself  shall  be  no  more, 
And  all  things  in  confusion  hurl'd, 

Music  shall  then  exert  its  pow'r, 
And  sound  survive  the  ruins  of  the  world :  ^ 

Then  saints  and  angels  shall  agree 

In  one  eternal  jubilee  : 
All  heav'n  shall  echo  with  their  hymns  divine, 

And  God  himself  with  pleasure  see 
The  whole  creation  in  a  chorus  join. 

CHORUS. 
Consecrate  the  place  and  day, 
To  music  and  Cecilia. 
Let  no  rough  winds  approach,  nor  dare 

Invade  the  hallow'd  bounds, 
Nor  rudely  shake  the  tuneful  air, 
Nor  spoil  the  fleeting  sounds. 
Nor  mournful  sigh  nor  groan  be  heard, 

But  gladness  dwell  on  every  tongue ; 

"Whilst  all,  with  voice  and  strings  prepar'd, 

Keep  up  the  loud  harmonious  song, 

And  imitate  the  blest  above, 

In  joy,  and  harmony,  and  love. 


TO    SIR    GODFREY    KNELLER, 

ON  HIS  PICTURE  OF  THE  KING. 


INTRODUCTORY    REMARKS. 

[Kneller,  like  Reynolds,  lived  much  with  the  wits  of  his  day,  but  unlike 
him,  was  constantly  their  butt.  In  his  "Welcome  from  Greece  to  Pope," 
Gay  says — 

"  Kneller  amid  the  triumph  bears  his  part, 
Who  could  (were  mankind  lost)  a  new  create : 
What  can  the  extent  of  his  vast  soul  confine  ? 
A  painter,  critic,  engineer  divine ! " 

The  allusion  is  to  a  trick  of  Pope's. 

One  day  Pope  said  to  him,  "Sir  Godfrey,  I  believe  if  God  Almighty  had 
had  your  assistance,  the  world  would  hate  been  formed  more  perfect." 
"Fore  God,"  said  Kneller,  never  doubting  the  poet's  object^  "I  believe  so." 

Of  these  lines  Johnson  says — "The  parallel  of  the  Princes  and  gods,  in 
his  verses  to  Kneller,  is  often  happy,  but  is  too  well  known  to  be  quoted." 

•*  No  single  ode  of  Cowley,"  says  Macaulay,  "  contains  so  many  happy 
analogies  as  are  crowded  into  the  lines  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller." 

Dugald  Stewart  also,  who  has  interspersed  his  philosphical  writings 
with  exquisite  specimens  of  literary  criticism,  has  borne  testimony  to  the 
merit  of  this  piece  in  the  following  characteristic  passage — "As  an  addi- 
tional confirmation  of  these  observations  we  may  remark,  that  the  more 
an  author  is  limited  by  his  subject,  the  more  we  are  pleased  with  his  wit. 
And,  therefore,  the  effect  of  wit  does  not  arise  solely  from  the  unexpected 
relations  which  it  presents  to  the  mind,  but  arises,  in  part,  from  the  sur- 
prise it  excites  at  those  intellectual  habits  which  give  it  birth.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  the  more  the  author  is  circumscribed  in  the  choice  of  his  materi- 
als, the  greater  must  be  the  command  which  he  has  acquired  over  those 
associating  principles  on  which  wit  depends,  and  of  consequence,  according 
to  the  foregoing  doctrine,  the  greater  must  be  the  surprise  and  the  pleasure 
which  his  wit  produces.  In  Addison's  celebrated  verses  to  Sir  Godfrey 
Kneller,  on  his  picture  of  George  the  First,  in  which  he  compares  the  paint- 
er to  Phidias,  and  the  subjects  of  his  pencil  to  the  Grecian  deities,  the 
range  of  the  Poet's  wit  was  necessarily  confined  witliin  very  narrow 
bounds,  and  what  principally  delights  lis  in  tliat  performance  is  the  sur- 
prising ease  and  felicity  with  which  he  runs  the  parallel  between  the  Eng- 
lish history  and  the  Greek  mythology.  Of  all  the  allusions  which  the 
following  passage  contains,  there  is  not  one,  taken  singly,  of  very  extraor- 


TO   SIR  GODFREY   KNELLER.  211 

dinary  merit ;  and  yet  the  effect  of  the  whole  is  uncommonly  great,  from 
the  singular  power  of  combination,  which  so  long  and  so  difficult  an  exertion 
discover."  The  passage  cited  is  from  "Wise  Phidias,"  to  "King  defied." 
—Stewart's  Works,  vol.  1,  pp.  222-3.— G.] 


TO   SIR   GODFREY   KNELLER. 

Kneller,  with  silence  and  surprise 
We  see  Britannia's  monarch  rise, 
A  godlike  form,  by  thee  display'd 
In  all  the  force  of  light  and  shade ; 
And,  aw'd  by  thy  delusive  hand, 
As  in  the  presence-chamber  stand. 

The  magic  of  thy  art  calls  forth 
His  secret  soul  and  hidden  worth, 
His  probity  and  mildness  shows, 
His  care  of  friends  and  scorn  of  foes : 
In  every  stroke,  in  every  line, 
Does  some  exalted  virtue  shine, 
And  Albion's  happiness  we  trace 
Through  all  the  features  of  his  face. 

0  may  I  live  to  hail  the  day. 
When  the  glad  nation  shall  survey 
Their  sovereign,  through  his  wide  command, 
Passing  in  progress  o'er  the  land  ! 
Each  heart  shall  bend,  and  every  voice 
In  loud  applauding  shouts  rejoice, 
Whilst  all  his  gracious  aspect  praise, 
And  crowds  grow  loyal  as  they  gaze. 

This  image  on  the  medal  placed, 
With  its  bright  round  of  titles  graced, 
And  stampt  on  British  coins  shall  live. 
To  richest  ores  the  value  give, 


•^ 


212  MISCELLANEOUS      POEMS. 

Or,  wrought  within  the  curious  mould, 
Shape  and  adorn  the  running  gold. 
To  bear  this  form,  the  genial  sun 
Has  daily,  since  his  course  begun, 
E-ejoiced  the  metal  to  refine, 
And  ripen'd  the  Peruvian  mine. 

Thou,  Kneller,*  long  with  noble  prido, 
The  foremost  of  thy  art,  hast  vied 
"With  nature,  in  a  generous  strife. 
And  touch 'd  the  canvas  into  life. 
Thy  pencil  has,  by  monarchs  sought. 
From  reign  to  reign  in  ermine  wrought. 
And,  in  their  robes  of  state  array'd. 
The  kings  of  half  an  age  display'd. 

Here  swarthy  Charles  appears,  and  there 
'His  brother  with  dejected  air : 
Triumphant  Nassau  here  we  find. 
And  with  him  bright  Maria  join'd ; 
There  Anna,  great  as  when  she  sent 
Her  armies  through  the  continent. 
Ere  yet  her  hero  was  disgrac'd : 
0  may  fam'd  Brunswick  be  the  last, 
(Though  heaven  should  with  my  wish  agree, 
And  long  preserve  thy  art  in  thee) 
The  last,  the  happiest  British  king, 
Whom  thou  shait  paint,  or  I  shall  sing  1 

Wise  Phidias,''  thus  his  skill  to  prove, 
Through  many  a  god  advanc'd  to  Jove, 

*  Thou,  Kneller.  If  this  little  poem  had  begun  here,  and  ended  with 
"  their  king  defy'd,''  it  had  been  equal,  or  superior,  to  any  thing  in  any- 
other  poet,  on  the  like  occasion. 

b  There  never  was  any  thing  happier,  than  this  whole  illustration,  nor 
more  exquisitely  expressed. 


TO   SIR  GODFREY  KNELLER.  213 

And  taught  the  polish'd  rocks  to  shine 
"With  airs  and  lineaments  divine  ; 
Till  Greece,  amaz'd,  and  half  afraid, 
Th'  assembled  deities  survey'd. 

Great  Pan,  who  wont  to  chase  the  fair, 
And  lov'd  the  spreading  oak,  was  there ; 
Old  Saturn  too,  with  up-cast  eyes ; 
Beheld  his  abdicated  skies  ;  , 

And  mighty  Mars,  for  war  renown'd. 
In  adamantine  armour  frown'd  ; 
By  him  the  childless  goddess  rose, 
Minerva,  studious  to  compose 
Her  twisted  threads ;  the  web  she  strung, 
And  o'er  a  loom  of  marble  hung  : 
Thetis,  the  troubled  ocean's  queen, 
Match'd  with  a  mortal,  next  was  seen, 
Reclining  on  a  funeral  urn. 
Her  short-liv'd  darling  son  to  mourn. 
The  last  was  he,  whose  thunder  slew 
The  Titan  race,  a  rebel  crew. 
That  from  a  hundred  hills  ally'd 
In  impious  leagues  their  king  defy'd. 

This  wonder  of  the  sculptor's  hand 
Produced,  his  art  was  at  a  stand : 
For  who  would  hope  new  fame  to  raise, 
Or  risk  his  well-establish'd  praise. 
That,  his  high  genius  to  approve, 
Had  drawn  a  George,  or  carv'd  a  Jove ! 


THE    COUNTESS   OF    MANCHESTER, 

/ 

AT    PARIS.  ^ 

While  haugtty  Gallia's  dames  that  spread 
O'er  their  pale  cheeks  an  artful  red, 
Beheld  this  beauteous  stranger  there, 
In  native  charms  divinely  fair ; 
Confusion  in  their  looks  they  show'd, 
And  with  unborrowed  blushes  glow'd. 


s  0  N  a  .2 

My  love  was  fickle  once  and  changing. 

Nor  e'er  would  settle  in  my  heart ; 
From  beauty  still  to  beauty  ranging, 

In  ev'ry  face  I  found  a  dart. 

'Twas  first  a  charming  shape  enslav'd  me. 

An  eye  then  gave  the  fatal  stroke  ; 
'Till  by  her  wit  Corinna  sav'd  me, 

And  all  my  former  fetters  broke. 

'These  lines  wei-e  written  by  Addisoi),  on  his  admission  to  the  Kit  Cat 
Club — where  it  was  required  that  every  new  member  should  name  his 
"  toast,"  and  write  something  in  her  honor,  to  be  engraved  on  a  drinking 
glass.     A.  had  met  this  lady  in  Paris. — G. 

"  Originally  published  in  the  Spectator,  with  an  amusing  commentary. — G. 


IMITATION      OF      OUR      ENGLISH      LYRICS.  215 

But  now  a  long  and  lasting  anguish, 

For  Belvidera  I  endure  : 
Hourly  I  sigh,  and  hourly  languish, 

Nor  hope  to  find  the  wonted  cure. 

For  here  the  false  unconstant  lover, 

After  a  thousand  beauties  shown, 
Does  new  surprising  charms  discover, 

And  finds  variety  in  one. 


IMITATION  OF  OUR  ENGLISH  LYRICS.  * 

I. 
Oh  the  charming  month  of  May  ! 
Oh  the  charming  month  of  May  ! 
When  the  breezes  fan  the  treeses. 
Full  of  blossoms  fresh  and  gay — 
Full,  &c. 

n. 
Oh  what  joys  our  prospects  yield  ! 
Charming  joys  our  prospects  yield  ! 
In  a  new  livery  when  we  see  every 
Bush  and  meadow,  tree  and  field — 
Bush,  &c. 

in. 
Oh  how  fresh  the  morning  air ! 
Charming  fresh  the  morning  air ! 
When  the  zephyrs  and  the  heifers 
Their  odoriferous  breath  compare— 
Their,  &c. 

'  Publiahed  in  the  Guardian,  124. 


216  MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS. 


Oh  how  fine  our  evening  walk ! 
Charming  fine  our  evening  walk ! 
When  the  nighting-gale  delighting 
With  her  song,  suspends  our  talk — 
With  her,  &c. 

V. 

Oh  how  sweet  at  night  to  dream ! 
Charming  sweet  at  night  to  dream ! 
On  mossy  pillows,  by  the  trilloes 
Of  a  gentle  purling  stream — 
Of  a,  &c. 

VI. 

Oh  how  kind  the  country  lass  1 
Charming  kind  the  country  lass  ! 
Who,  her  cow  bilking,  leaves  her  milking 
For  a  green  gown  upon  the  grass — 
For  a,  &c. 

vn. 

Oh  how  sweet  it  is  to  spy  ! 
Charming  sweet  it  is  to  spy  ! 
At  the  conclusion  her  confusion, 
Blushing  cheeks  and  down-cast  eye — 
Blushing,  &c. 

VIIL 

Oh  the  cooling  curds  and  cream  ! 
Charming  cooling  curds  and  cream ! 
When  all  is  over,  she  gives  her  lover, 
Who  on  her  skimming  dish  carves  her  name- 
Who  on,  &c. 


PBOLOaUE  TO  THE  TENDER  HUSBAND." 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  WILKa 

In  the  first  rise  and  infancy  of  Farce, 

When  fools  were  many,  and  when  plays  were  scarce, 

The  raw  unpractised  authors  could,  with  ease, 

A  young  and  unexperienc'd  audience  please  : 

No  single  character  had  e'er  been  shown, 

But  the  whole  herd  of  fops  was  all  their  own ; 

Eich  in  originals,  they  set  to  view, 

In  every  piece  a  coxcomb  that  was  new. 

But  now  our  British  theatre  can  boast 
Drolls  of  all  kinds,  a  vast  unthinking  host ! 
Fruitful  of  folly  and  of  vice,  it  shows 
Cuckolds,  and  cits,  and  bawds,  and  pimps,  and  beaux ; 
Rough  country  knights  are  found  of  every  shire 
Of  every  fashion  gentle  fops  appear ; 
And  punks  of  different  characters  we  meet, 
As  frequent  on  the  stage  as  in  the  pit. 
Our  modern  wits  are  forc'd  to  pick  and  cull, 
And  here  and  there  by  chance  glean  up  a  fool : 
Long  ere  they  find  the  necessary  spark, 
They  search  the  town  and  beat  about  the  Park : 
To  all  his  most  frequented  haunts  resort, 
Oft  dog  him  to  the  ring,  and  oft  to  court ; 
As  love  of  pleasure,  or  of  place  invites . 
And  sometimes  catch  him  taking  snuff  at  White's. 

Howe'er,  to  do  you  right,  the  present  age 
Breeds  very  hopeful  monsters  for  the  stage ; 

*  A  comedy  written  by  Sir  Richard  Steele. 
VOL.  I. — 10  > 


218  MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS 

That  scorn  the  paths  their  dull  forefathers  trod, 
And  wo'n't  be  blockheads  in  the  common  road. 

Do  but  survey  this  crowded  house  to-night : 

Here's  still  encouragement  for  those  that  write. 

Our  author,  to  divert  his  friends  to-day, 
Stocks  with  variety  of  fools  his  play  ; 
And  that  there  may  be  something  gay  and  new. 
Two  ladies-errant  has  expos'd  to  view : 
The  first  a  damsel,  travell'd  in  romance ; 
The  ^  t'other  more  refin'd ;  she  comes  from  France  : 
Kescue,  like  courteous  knights,  the  nymph  from  danger  ; 
And  kindly  treat,  like  well-bred  men,  the  stranger. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  BKITISH  ENCHANTERS.* 

When  Orpheus  tun'd  his  lyre  with  pleasing  woe, 
Rivers  forgot  to  run,  and  winds  to  blow, 
While  list'ning  forests  cover'd,  as  he  play'd^ 
The  soft  musician  in  a  moving  shade. 
That  this  night's  strains  the  same  success  may  find, 
The  force  of  magic  is  to  music  join'd: 
Where  sounding  strings  and  artful  voices  fail, 
The  charming  rod  and  niutter'd  spells  prevail. 
Let  sage  Urganda  wave  the  circling  wand 
On  barren  mountains,  or  a  .waste  of  sand. 
The  desert  smiles ;  the  woods  begin  to  grow. 
The  birds  to  warble,  and  the  springs  to  flow. 

'  It  is  strange  that  this  use  of  t\  so  like  the  French  euphonic  /'  before 
on,  should  have  escaped  the  grammatical  eye  of  Hurd. — G. 

■  « 

•  A  dramatic  poem  written  by  the  Lord  Lausdown. 


EPILOGUE.  219 

The  same  dull  sights  in  the  same  landscape  mixt,  ^ 

Scenes  of  still  life,  and  points  for  ever  fix'd, 
A  tedious  pleasure  on  the  mind  bestow, 
And  pall  the  sense  with  one  continu'd  show  : 
But  as  our  two  magicians  try  their  skill, 
The  vision  varies,  tho'  the  place  stands  still, 
While  the  same  spot  its  gaudy  form  renews. 
Shifting  the  prospect  to  a  thousand  views. 
Thus  (without  unity  of  place  transgrest) 
Th'  enchanter  turns  the  critic  to  a  jest. 

But  howsoe'er,*  to  please  your  wand'ring  eyes, 
Bright  objects  disappear  and  brighter  rise  : 
There's  none  can  make  amends  for  lost  delight. 
While  from  that  circle  we  divert  your  sight. 


EPILOGUE 

TO    THE     'DISTRESSED    MOTHER.' 

A  TRAGEDY.— TRANSLATED  BY  AMBReSE  PHILIPS,  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

OF  RACINE. 

SPOKEN      BY      ANDROMACH. 


[This  piece  finds  a  place  here  upon  the  authority  of  Mr.  Garrick,  who 
learnt  from  Tonson's  family  that  the  morning  on  which  it  was  originally 
printed,  Addison  came  down  in  great  haste,  and  had  Budgell's  name  sub- 
stituted for  his  own.  This  is  supposed  to  have  been  done  in  order  to  give 
Budgell,  whom  Addison  styled  "the  man  who  calls  me  cousin,"  better 
chances  for  a  place  which  his  friends  were  soliciting  for  him. — G.] 

I  HOPE  you'll  own,  that  with  becoming  art, 

I've  played  my  game,  and  topp'd"  the  widow's  part. 

»  But  howsob'er.  a  word,  which  nobody  would  noW  use  in  verse,  and 
not  many  in  good  prose 


220  MISCELLANEOUS      POEMS. 

My  spouse,  poor  man,  could  not  live  out  the  play, 
But  died  commodiously  on  his  wedding  day ; 
While  I,  his  relict,  made  at  one  bold  fling, 
Myself  a  princess,  and  young  Sty  a  king. 

You,  ladies,  who  protract  a  lover's  pain,         "" 
And  hear  your  servants  sigh  whole  years  in  vain ; 
Which  of  you  all  would  not  on  marriage  venture. 
Might  she  so  soon  upon  her  jointure  enter  ? 

'Twas  a  strange  'scape  !     Had  Pyrrhus  lived  till  now, 
I  had  been  finely  hampered  in  my  vow. 
To  die  by  one's  own  hand,  and  fly  the  charms 
Of  love  and  life  in  a  young  monarch's  arms ! 
'Twere  a  hard  fate — ere  I  had  undergone  it, 
I  might  have  took  one  night — to  think  upon  it. 

But  why,  you'll  say,  was  all  this  grief  expressed 
For  a  first  husband,  laid  long  since  at  rest  ? 
Why  so  much  coldness  to  my  kind  protector  ? 
— Ah,  ladies  !  had  you  known  the  good  man  Hector  I 
Homer  will  tell  you,  (or  I'm  misinformed,) 
That,  when  enrag'd,  the  Grecian  camp  he  stormed ; 
To  break  the  tenfold  barriers  of  the  gate. 
He  threw  a  stone  of  such  prodigious  weight, 
As  no  two  men  could  lift,  not  even  of  those 
Who  in  that  age  of  thundering  mortals  rose : 
— It  would  have  sprain'd  a  dozen  modern  beaus. 

At  length,  howe'er,  I  laid  my  weeds  aside, 
And  sunk  the  ^idow  in  the  well-dress'd  bride. 
In  you  it  still  remains  to  grace  the  play, 
And  bless  with  joy  my  coronation  day ; 
Take,  then,  ye  circles  of  the  brave  and  fair, 
The  fatherless  and  widow  to  your  care. 


ii  li  A  M  A  S 


ROSAMOND. 

au  (Both. 

INSCRIBED  TO  HER  GRACE  THE  DUCHESS  OF  MARLBOROUGH 


Hie  quos  durus  amor  crudeli  tabe  peredit 

Secret!  celant  calles,  et  Myrtea  circiim 

Sylvft  tegit  Vir».  ^n.  6 


INTRODUCTORY    REMARKS. 

[Addison's  attention  had  been  called  to  the  Opera  during  his  travels  in 
Italy,  and  on  returning  to  England,  where  it  had  recently  been  introduced 
in  Italian,  he  was  struck  with  the  seeming  absurdity  of  an  audience  listen- 
ing, during  a  whole  evening,  to  a  piece  written  in  a  language  which  not 
fifty  of  them  understood.  To  oppose  it,  he  wrote  an  opera  Ifimself,  taking 
his  subject  from  the  well-known  story  of  "Rosamond's  Bower,"  to  which 
the  recent  donation  of  "  Woodstock  "  to  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  as  an 
acknowledgment  of  his  services,  "  not  to  his  own  country  and  sovereign 
only,  but  to  all  Europe,"  gave  a  new  interest.  It  was  this  circumstance 
also,  which  suggested  the  dedication  to  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  at 
which  Johnson  snarled  with  more  than  his  usual  harshness.  The  music, 
according  to  a  report  cited  by  Sir  John  Hawkins,  in  his  "History  of 
Music,"  was  a  "jargon  of  sounds."  After  two  or  three  cold  or  unsiiccess- 
ful  representations,  it  was  dropped.  Addison  then  published  it,  one  would 
almost  suppose  in  self-justification.  Among  the  marks  of  attention  which 
it  drew  forth,  was  a  copy  of  verses  from  a  young  Oxonian,  Thomas 
Tickell,  then  unknown  to  fame,  but  whose  name  is  now  inseparably  con- 
nected with  Addison's.  The  reader  will  readily  recall  the  humorous  his- 
tory of  the  Italian  Opera  in  England,  which  appeared  a  few  years  after- 
wards in  the  5th  and  18th  numbers  of  the  Spectator. 

Of  this  piece  Johnson  says  : — "  The  Opera  of  Rosamond,  though  it  is 
seldom  mentioned,  is  one  of  the  first  of  Addison's  compositions.  The  sub- 
ject is  well  chosen,  the  fiction  is  pleasing,  and  the  praise  of  Marlborough, 
for  which  the  scene  gives  an  opportunity,  is,  what  perhaps  every  human 
excellence  must  be,  the  product  of  good  luck,  improved  by  genius.  The 
thoughts  are  sometimes  great,  and  sometimes  tender ;  the  versification  is 
easy  and  gay.  There  is,  doubtless,  some  advantage  in  the  shortness  of  the 
lines,  which  there  is  little  temptation  to  load  with  expletive  epithets. 
The  dialogue  seems  commonly  better  than  the  songs.  The  two  comic 
characters  of  Sir  Trusty  and  Grideline,  though  of  no  great  value,  are  such 
as  the  poet  intended.  Sir  Trusty's  account  of  the  death  of  Rosamond  is, 
I  think,  too  grossly  absurd.  The  whole  drama  is  airy  and  elegant ;  engag- 
ing in  its  progress,  and  pleasing  in  its  conclusion.  If  Addison  had  culti 
vated  the  lighter  parts  of  poetry,  he  would  ptebably  h^ve  excelled," 

--^L.  I.— 10* 


226  DRAMAS. 

Macaulay,  who  in  most  of  his  criticisms  agrees  with  Johnson,  says: — 
"His  Travels  were  followed  by  the  lively  Opera  of  "Rosamond."  This 
piece  was  ill  set  to  music,  and  therefore  failed  on  the  stage ;  but  it  com- 
pletely succeeded  in  print,  and  is,  indeed,  excellent  of  its  kind.  The 
smoothness  with  which  tlie  verses  glide,  and  the  elasticity  with  which 
they  bound,  is,  to  our  ears  at  least,  very  pleasing.  We  are  inclined  to 
think,  that  if  Addison  had  left  heroic  couplets  to  Pope,  and  blank  verse  to 
Rowe,  and  had  employed  himself  in  writing  airy  and  spirited  songs,  his 
reputation  as  a  poet  would  have  stood  far  higher  than  it  now  does.  Some 
yeai's  after  his  death,  '  Rosamond '  was  set  to  new  music  by  Doctor  Arne, 
and  was  performed  with  complete  success.  Several  passages  long  retained 
their  popularity,  and  were  daily  sung,  during  the  latter  part  of  George 
the  Second's  reign,  at  all  the  harpsichords  in  England." 

Warton  condemns  the  introduction  of  the  comic  characters.  This  story 
furnished  Niccolini  the  subject  of  his  beautiful  tragedy  of  "  Rosmunda." 

Addison's  choice  of  his  subject  may  be  considered  as  another  proof  of 
his  fondness  for  the  old  English  ballad,  to  which  he  has  paid  so  beautiful  a 
tribute  in  the  Spectator.  On  this  occasion  he  has  altered  the  story  to  avoid 
the  tragic  catastrophe :  and,  perhaps,  with  the  feeling,  that  while  a  Queeu 
was  on  the  throne,  it  would  hardly  do  to  paint  a  British  Queen  as  she  appears 
in  this  ballad,  and  in  the  still  stronger  story  of  Queeu  Eleanor's  confession. 
For  both  these  ballads  see  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry. — G.] 


A    COPY     OF    VERSES 

IN  THE  SIXTH  MISCELLANY, 

TO.  THE 

AUTHOR     OF     ROSAMOND 


Ne  forte  pudori 

Sit  tibl  Musa  Lyrae  solcrs,  ot  Cantor  Apollo. 

BY     MR.     TICKELL. 

The  opera  first  Italian  masters  taught, 
Enrich'd  with  songs,  but  innocent  of  thought. 
Britannia's  learned  theatre  disdains 
Melodious  trifles,  and  enervate  strains ; 
And  blushes,  on  her  injur 'd  stage  to  see 
Nonsense  well-tun'd,  and  sweet  stupidity.  . 

No  charms  are  wanting  to  thy  artful  song, 
Soft  as  Corelli,  but  as  Virgil  strong,  ^. 

From  words  so  sweet  new  grace  the  notes  receive, 
And  music  borrows  helps,  she  us'd  to  give. 
Thy  style  hath  match'd  what  ancient  Romans  knew,  \ 
Thy  flowing  numbers  far  excel  the  new ;  { 

Their  cadence  in  such  easy  sound  convey'd. 
That  height  of  thought  may  seem  superfluous  aid ; 
Yet  in  such  charms  the  noble  thoughts  abound. 
That  needless  seem  the  sweets  of  easy  sound. 

Landscapes  how  gay  the  bow'ry  grotto  yields, 
"Which  thought  creates,  and  laYiah  f^ncy  builds  ! 


228  DRAMAS. 

What  art  can  trace  the  visionary  scenes, 

The  flow'ry  groves,  and  everlasting  greens, 

The  babbling  sounds  that  mimic  echo  plays, 

The  fairy  shade,  and  its  eternal  maze, 

Nature  and  art  in  all  their  charms  combin'd  I 

And  all  Elysium  to  one  view  confin'd ! 

No  further  could  imagination  roam, 

'Till  Vanbrook  fram'd,  and  Marlbro'  rais'd  the  dome. 

Ten  thousand  pangs  my  anxious  bosom  tear, 
When  drown'd  in  tears  I  see  the'  imploring  fair : 
When  bards  less  soft  the  moving  words  supply, 
A  seeming  justice  dooms  the  nymph  to  die ; 
But  here  she  begs,  nor  can  she  beg  in  vain, 
(In  dirges  thus  expiring  swans  complain) 
Each  verse  so  swells,  expressive  of  her  woes. 
And  ev'ry  tear  in  lines  so  mournful  flows ; 
Wcj  spite  of  fame,  her  fate  revers'd  believe, 
O'erlookher  crimes,  and  think  she  ought  to  live. 

Let  joy  transport  fair  Rosamonda's  shade. 
And  wreaths  of  myrtle  crown  the  lovely  maid. 
While  now  perhaps  with  Dido's  ghost  she  roves, 
And  hears  and  tells  the  story  of  their  loves. 
Alike  they  mourn,  alike  they  bless  their  fate. 
Since  love,  which  made  'em  wretched,  makes  'em  great ; 
Nor  longer  that  relentless  doom  bemoan, 
^'      Which  gain'd  a  Virgil  and  an  Addison. 

Accept,  great  monarch  of  the  British  lays 
The  tribute  song  an  humble  subject  pays. 
So  tries  the  artless  lark  her  early  flight, 
And  soars,  to  hail  the  God  of  verse,  and  light. 
Unrival'd  as  thy  merit  be  thy  fame, 
^nd  thy  own  laurels  shade  thy  envy'd  name 


ROSAMOND.  229 

Thy  name,  the  boast  of  all  the  tuneful  choir, 

Shall  tremble  on  the  strings  of  ev'ry  lyre ; 

While  the  charm'd  reader  with  thy  thought  complies, 

Feels  corresponding  joys  or  sorrows  rise, 

And  views  thy  Rosamond  with  Henry's  eyes. 


DRAMATIS    PERSON^iE. 

MEK 
King  Henry. 

Sir  Trusty,  Keeper  of  the  Bower. 
Page. 

Messenger. 

WOMEN. 
Queen  Elinor. 
Rosamond. 

Grideline,  Wife  to  Sir  Trusty. 
Guardian  Angels,  <fec. 

Scene,  Woodstock  Park. 


ROSAMOND. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE    I.* 

A  Prospect  of  Woodstock  Park,  terminating  in  the  Bower, 

Enter  Queen  and  Page. 

Queen.     What  place  is  here  I 
What  scenes  appear  I 
Where'er  I  turn  my  eyes, 
All  around 
Enchanted  ground 
And  soft  Elysiums  rise  : 
Flow'ry  mountains, 
Mossy  fountains, 
Shady  woods, 
Chrystal  floods, 
With  wild  variety  surprise. 
As  o'er  the  hollow  vaults  we  walk,  "^ 
A  hundred  echoes  round  us  talk  : 
From  hill  to  hill  the  voice  is  tost, 
Rocks  rebounding, 
Caves  resounding, 
Not  a  single  word  is  lost. 
Page.     There  gentle  Rosamond  immured 
Lives  from  the  world  and  you  secured. 

»  The  comic  scenes  of  this  opera  are  pleasant  and  entertaining. 
*  Alluding  to  the  famous  echo  in  Woodstock-Park. 


232  DRAMAS. 

Queen.     Curse  on  the  name  !  I  faint,  I  die, 
With  secret  pangs  of  jealous3^ [Aside, 

Page.     There  does  the  pensive  beauty  mourn, 
And  languish  for  her  lord's  return. 

Queen.     Death  and  confusion !  I'm  too  slow — 
Show  me  the  happy  mansion,  show —  \ Aside, 

Page.     Great  Henry  there — 

Queen.     Trifler,  no  more  ! — 

Page.     — Great  Henry  there 
Will  soon  forget  the  toils  of  war. 

Queen.     No  more !  the  happy  mansion  show 
That  holds  this  lovely  guilty  foe. 
My  wrath,  like  that  of  heav'n,  shall  rise, 
And  blast  her  in  her  paradise. 

Page.     Behold  on  yonder  rising  ground 

The  bower,*  that  wanders 

In  meanders, 

^  The  king,  therefore,  for  her  defence, 
Against  the  furious  queene, 
At  Woodatocke  builded  such  a  bower 
.  ~    ,  The  like  was  never  scene. 

Most  curiously  that  bower  was  built 

Of  stone  and  timber  strong ; 
An  hundered  and  fifty  doors 

Did  to  this  bower  belonge. 

And  they  so  cunninglye  contrived, 

With  turnings  round  about, 
That  none  but  with  a  clue  of  thread 
Could  enter  in  or  out. 

Faik  Rosamond.— /'«rcy'«  Heligues  of  Aiicient  English 
Poetry,  v.  2,  pp.  156-7. 

Hearno,  who  wrote  in  1718,  a  discourse  upon  Rosamond,  says,  "That 
by  the  pool  at  Woodstock  were  still  to  be  seen  the  foundations  of  a  very 
large  building,  which  were  believed  to  be  the  remains  of  Rosamond's 
labyrinth."— G. 


ROSAMOND.  2S3 

Ever  bending, 
Never  ending, 
Glades  on  glades, 

Shades  in  shades,  ' 

Running  an  eternal  round. 
Queen.     In  such  an  endless  maze  I  rove, 
Lost  in  labyrinths  of  love. 
My  breast  with  hoarded  vengeance  burns, 
AVhile  fear  and  rage 
With  hope  engage. 
And  rule  my  wav'ring  soul  by  turns. 

Page.     The  path  yon  verdant  field  divides, 
Which  to  the  soft  confinement  guides. 
Queen.     Eleonora,  think  betimes. 
What  are  thy  hated  rival's  crimes  ! 
Whither,  ah  whither  dost  thou  go  ! 
What  has  she  done  to  move  thee  so ! 
— Does  she  not  warm  with  guilty  fires 
The  faithless  lord  of  my  desires  ? 
Have  not  her  fatal  arts  remov'd 

My  Henry  from  my  arms  ? 
'Tis  her  crime  to  be  lov'd, 

'Tis  her  crime  to  have  charms. 
Let  us  fly,  let  us  fly. 
She  shall  die,  she  shall  die.  '^ 
I  feel,  I  feel  my  heart  relent, 
How  could  the  fair  be  innocent ! 
To  a  monarch  like  mine, 
Who  would  not  resign .' 
One  so  great  and  so  bravo 
All  hearts  must  enslave. 


234  DRAMAS. 

Page.     Hark,  hark  !  what  sound  invades  my  ear  ? 
The  conqueror's  approach  I  hear. 
He  comes,  victorious  Henry  comes  ! 
Hautboys,  trumpets,  fifes  and  drums, 
In  dreadful  concert  join'd, 
Send  from  afar 

A  sound  of  war, 
And  fill  with  horror  ev'ry  wind. 
Queen.     Henry  returns,  from  danger  free ! 
Henry  returns  ! — but  not  to  me. 
He  comes  his  Rosamond  to  greet. 
And  lay  his  laurels  at  her  feet. 
His  vows  impatient  to  renew  ; 
His  vows  to  Eleonora  due. 
Here  shall  the  happy  nymph  detain, 
(While  of  his  absence  I  complain) 
Hid  in  her  mazy,  wanton  bower. 
My  lord,  my  life,  my  conqueror. 

No,  no,  'tis  decreed 

The  traitress  shall  bleed  ; 

No  fear  shall  alarm, 

No  pity  disarm ; 

In  my  rage  shall  be  seen 

The  revenge  of  a  queen. 

SCENE   II. 

The  Entry  of  the  Boicer. 

Sir  Trusty,  Knight  of  the  Bower ^  solus. 

How  unhappy  is  he, 
That  is  ty'd  to  a  she. 
And  fam'd  for  his  wit  anH  bis  beauty  I 


ROSAMOND.  235 

For  of  us  pretty  fellows 
Our  wives  are  so  jealous, 
They  ne'er  have  enough  of  our  duty. 
But  hah  !  my  limbs  begin  to  quiver, 
I  glow,  I  burn,  I  freeze,  I  shiver ; 
Whence  rises  this  convulsive  strife  ? 
I  smell  a  shrew  ! 
My  fears  are  true, 
I  see  my  wife. 

SCENE    III. 
Grideline  and  Sir  Trusty. 

G-RiDELiNE.     Faithless  varlet,  art  thou  there  ? 

Sir  Trusty.     My  love,  my  dove,  my  charming  fair ! 

Grideline.     Monster,  thy  wheedling  tricks  I  know 

Sir  Trusty.     Why  wilt  thou  call  thy  turtle  so  ? 

Grideline.     Cheat  not  me  with  false  caresses. 

Sir  Trusty.     Let  me  stop  thy  mouth  with  kisses 

Grideline.     Those  to  fair  Rosamond  are  due. 

Sir  Trusty.     She  is  not  half  so  fair  as  you. 

Grideline.     She  views  thee  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Sir  Trusty.     I'll  still  be  thine,  and  let  her  die. 

Grideline.     No,  no,  'tis  plain.  Thy  frauds  I  see, 
Traitor  to  thy  king  and  me  ! 

Sir  Trusty.     O  Grideline  !  consult  thy  glass, 
Behold  that  sweet  bewitching  face, 
Those  blooming  checks,  that  lovely  hue ! 
Ev'ry  feature 
(Charming  creature) 
Will  convince  you  I  am  true. 


236  DRAMAS. 

Grideline.     0  how  blest  were  Grideline, 
Could  I  call  Sir  Trusty  mine ! 
Did  he  not  cover  amorous  wiles  : 
With  soft,  but  ah  !  deceiving  smiles  : 
How  should  I  revel  in  delight, 
The  spouse  of  such  a  peerless  knight ! 

Sir  Trusty.     At  length  the  storm  begins  to  cease, 
I've  sooth'd  and  fiatter'd  her  to  peace. 
'Tis  now  my  turn  to  tyrannize  :  |  Aside 

I  feel,  I  feel  my  fury  rise  ! 
Tigress,  be  gone. 

Grideline.     I  love  thee  so 
I  cannot  go. 

Sir  Trusty.     Fly  from  my  passion,  beldame,  fly  ! 

Grideline.    Why  so  unkind,  Sir  Trusty,  why  ? 

Sir  Trusty.     Thou'rt  the  plague  of  my  life. 

Grideline..     I'm  a  foolish  fond  wife. 

Sir  Trusty.     Let  us  part. 
Let  us  part. 

Grideline.    Will  you  break  my  poor  heart? 
Will  you  break  my  poor  heart  ?  Q 

Sir  Trusty.     I  will  if  I  can.    ,      \    t 

Grideline.       0  barbarous  man  ! 
From  whence  doth  all  this  passion  flow? 

Sir  Trusty.     Thou  art  ugly  and  old. 
And  a  villanous  scold. 

Grideline.     Thou  art  a  rustic  to  call  me  so 
I'm  not  ugly  nor  old. 
Nor  a  villanous  scold, 
But  thou  art  a  rustic  to  call  me  so. 
Thou,  traitor,  adieu  ! 

Sir  Trusty.     Farewel,  thou  shrew! 


ROSAMOND.  237 

Grideline.     Thou  traitor. 
Sir  Trusty.     Thou  shrew. 

Both.     Adieu  !  adieu !  \_Exit  Grid. 

Sir  Trusty,  .S(?/2^5.     How  hard  is  our  fate, 
Who  serve  in  the  state. 
And  should  lay  out  our  cares 
On  public  affairs  ;  '  \ 

When  conjugal  toils. 
And  family-broils, 
Make  all  our  great  labours  miscarry ! 
Yet  this  is  the  lot 
Of  him  that  has  got 
Fair  Rosamond's  bower, 
With  the  clew  in  his  power, 
And  is  courted  by  all, 
Both  the  great  and  the  small, ' 
As  principal  pimp  to  the  mighty  King  Harry. 
But  see  the  pensive  fair  draws  near ; 
I'll  at  a  distance  stand  and  hear. 

SCENE   IV. 

Rosamond  and  Sir  Trusty. 

Rosamond.     From  walk  to  walk,  from  shade  to  shade, 
From  stream  to  purling  stream  convey'd, 
Through  all  the  mazes  of  the  grove, 
Through  all  the  mingling  tracks  I  rove, 

Turning, 

Burning, 

Changing, 

Ranging, 
Full  of  grief  and  full  of  love. 


23P  DRAMAS. 

Impatient  for  my  lord's  return 
I  sigh,  I  pine,  I  rave,  I  mourn. 
Was  ever  passion  cross'd  like  mine  ? 

To  rend  my  breast, 

And  break  my  rest, 
A  thousand  thousand  ills  combine. 

Absence  wounds  me. 

Fear  surrounds  me. 

Guilt  confounds  me, 
Was  ever  passion  cross'd  like  mine  ? 

Sir  Trusty.     What  heart  of  stone 

Can  hear  her  moan, 
And  not  in  dumps  so  doleful  join  !  [Apart, 

Rosamond.     How  does  my  constant  grief  deface 
The  pleasures  of  this  happy  place  ! 
In  vain  the  spring  my  senses  greets 
In  all  her  colours,  all  her  sweets ; 

To  me  the  rose 

No  longer  glows. 

Every  plant 

Has  lost  its  scent : 
The  vernal  blooms  of  A'-arious  hue. 
The  blossoms  fresh  with  morning  dew, 
The  breeze,  that  sweeps  these  fragrant  bowers, 
Fill'd  with  the  breath  of  op'ning  flow'rs, 

Purple  scenes. 

Winding  greens. 

Glooms  inviting 

Birds  delighting, 
(Nature's  softest,  sweetest  store) 
Charm  my  tortur'd  soul  no  more. 


ROSAMOND.  2rM 

Ye  powers,  I  rave,  I  faint,  I  die  ; 
Why  so  slow  !  great  Henry,  why  : 
From  death  and  alarms 
Fly,  fly  to  my  arms. 
Fly  to  my  arms,  my  monarch,  fly  ! 

Sir  Trusty.     How  much  more  bless'd  would  lovers  be 
Did  all  the  whining  fools  agree 
To  live  like  Grideline  and  me  !  [Apart. 

Rosamond.     0  Rosamond,  behold  too  late, 
And  tremble  at  thy  future  fate  ! 
Curse  this  unhappy,  guilty  face. 
Every  charm,  and  every  grace. 
That  to  thy  ruin  made  their  way. 
And  led  thine  innocence  astray : 
At  home  thou  seest  thy  queen  enraged, 
Abroad  thy  absent  lord  engaged 
In  wars,  that  may  our  loves  disjoin, 
And  end  at  once  his  life  and  mine. 

Sir  Trusty.     Such  cold  complaints  befit  a  nun  ; 
If  she  turns  honest,  I'm  undone  !  {Apart. 

Rosamond.     Beneath  some  hoary  mountain 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  weep. 
Or  near  some  warbling  fountain 

Bewail  myself  asleep ; 
Where  feathered  choirs  combining 

With  gentle  murm'ring  streams. 
And  winds  in  consort  joining, 

Raise  sadly  pleasing  dreams.        '  {Ex.  Ros 

Sir  Trusty,  solus.     What  savage  tiger  would  not  pitj 
A  damsel  so  distress'd  and  pretty ; 
But  hah  !  a  sound  my  bower  invades,        [Trump Jlor, 
And  ecboes  through  the  winding  shades  ; 


240  DRAMAS. 

'Tis  Henry's  march !  the  tune  I  know  : 
A  messenger  !     It  must  be  so. 

SCENE   y. 
Messenger  and  Sir  Trusty. 

Messenger.     Great  Henry  comes !  with  love  opprest ; 
Prepare  to  lodge  the  royal  guest. 
From  purple  fields  with  slaughter  spread, 
From  rivers  chok'd  with  heaps  of  dead, 
From  glorious  and  immortal  toils, 
Loaden  with  honour,  rich  with  spoils, 
Great  Henry  comes  !     Prepare  thy  bower 
^  To  lodge  the  mighty  conqueror. 

Sir  Trusty.     The  bower  and  lady  both  are  drest, 
And  ready  to  receive  their  guest. ' 

Messenger.     Hither  the  victor  flies,  (his  queen 
And  royal  progeny  unseen  ;) 
Soon  as  the  British  shores  he  reached. 
Hither  his  foaming  courser  stretched : 
And  see  !  his  eager  steps  prevent 
The  message  that  himself  hath  sent ! 
Sir  Trusty.     Here  will  I  stand 

With  hat  in  hand. 

Obsequiously  to  meet  him. 

And  must  endeavour 

At  behaviour. 

That's  suitable  to  greet  him. 


ROSAMOND.  24 1 

SCENE    YI. 

Enter  King  Heiv'ey  after  ajiourish  of  trumpets. 

King.     Where  is  my  love  !  my  Rosamond  ? 
^    Sir  Trusty.     First,  as  in  strictest  duty  bound, 
I  kiss  your  royal  hand. 
King.     Where  is  my  life  !  my  Rosamond  ? 
Sir  Trusty.     Next  with  submission  most  profound, 

I  welcome  you  to  land. 
King.     Where  is  the  tender,  charming  fair  ? 
Sir  Trusty.     Let  me  appear,  great  sir,  I  pray, 
Methodigal  in  what  I  say. 

King.     Where  is  my  love,  0  tell  me  where  ? 
Sir  Trusty.     For  when  we  have  a  prince's  ear, 
We  should  have  wit. 
To  know  what's  fit 
For  us  to  speak,  and  him  to  hear. 

King.     These  dull  delays  I  cannot  bear. 
Where  is  my  love,  0  tell  me  where  ? 

Sir  Trusty.     I  speak,  great  sir,  with  weeping  eyes, 
She  raves,  alas  !  she  faints,  she  dies.  / 

King.     What  dost  thou  say  ?     I  shake  with  fear. 
Sir  Trusty.     Nay,  good  my  liege,  with  patience  hear. 
She  raves,  and  faints,  and  dies,  'tis  true ; 
But  raves,  and  faints,  and  dies  for  you. 

King.     Was  ever  nymph  like  Rosamond, 
So  fair,  so  faithful,  and  so  fond, 
Adorn'd  with  ev'ry  charm  and  grace  ? 
I'm  all  desire ! 
My  heart's  on  fire. 
And  leaps  and  springs  to  her  embrace. 

VOL.  I. — ll 


J42  DRAMAS. 

Sir  Trusty.     At  the  sight  of  her  loyer 
She'll  quickly  recover. 

What  place  will  you  chuse 

For  first  interviews  ? 
King.     Full  in  the  centre  of  the  grove, 
In  yon  pavilion  made  for  love, 
Where  woodbines,  roses,  jessamines, 
Amaranths,  and  eglantines, 
With  intermingling  sweets  have  wove 
The  parti- colour' d  gay  alcove. 

Sir  Trusty.     Your  highness.  Sir,  as  I  presume, 
Has  chose  the  most  convenient  gloom ; 
There's  not  a  spot  in  all  the  park 
Has  trees  so  thick,  and  shades  so  dark. 

King.     Meanwhile  with  due  attention  wait 
To  guard  the  bower,  and  watch  the  gate ; 
Let  neither  envy,  grief,  nor  fear. 
Nor  love-sick  jealousy  appear ; 
Nor  senseless  pomp,  nor  noise  intrude 
On  this  delicious  solitude  ; 
But  pleasure  reign  through  all  the  grove, 
And  all  be  peace,  and  all  be  love. 
0  the  pleasing,  pleasing  anguish, 
When  we  love,  and  when  we  languish  ! 

Wishes  rising ! 

Thoughts  surprising ! 

Pleasure  courting ! 

Charms  transporting ! 

Fancy  viewing 

Joys  ensuing ! 
0  the  pleasing,  pleasing  anguish  !  [Exeunt. 


ROSAMOND.  243 

ACT  IL 

SCENE  I. 

A  Pmilion  in  the  middle  of  the  Bower. 

King   and   Eosamond. 

King.     Thus  let  my  weary  soul  forget 

Restless  glory,  martial  strife, 
Anxious  pleasures  of  the  great, 

And  gilded  cares  of  life. 
Rosamond.     Thus  let  me  lose,  in  rising  joys, 

Fierce  impatience,  fond  desires. 
Absence  that  flatt'ring  hope  destroys. 
And  life-consuming  fires. 

King.     Not  the  loud  British  shout  that  warms 
The  warrior's  heart,  nor  clashing  arms, 
Nor  fields  with  hostile  bannei*s  strow'd. 
Nor  life  on  prostrate  Gauls  bestow'd, 
Give  half  the  joys  that  fill  my  breast. 
While  with  my  Rosamond  I'm  blest. 

Rosamond.     My  Henry  is  my  soul's  delight, 
My  wish  by  day,  my  dream  by  night. 
'Tis  not  in  language  to  impart 
The  secret  meltings  of  my  heart. 
While  I  my  conqueror  survey, 
And  look  my  very  soul  away. 

King.     0  may  the  present  bliss  endure, 
From  fortune,  time,  and  death  secure ! 

Both.     0  may  the  present  bliss  endure  I 

King.     My  eye  could  ever  gaze,  my  ear 

Those  gentle  sounds  could  ever  hear : 


244  DRAMAS. 

But  oh  !  with  noon-day  heats  opprest, 

My  aking  temples  call  for  rest ! 

In  yon  cool  grotto's  artful  night 

Refreshing  slumbers  I'll  invite, 

Then  seek  again  my  absent  fair, 

With  all  the  love  a  heart  can  bear.  [Exit  King. 

Rosamond,  sola.     From  whence  this  sad  presaging  fear. 
This  sudden  sigh,  this  falling  tear  ? 
Oft  in  my  silent  dreams  by  night 

With  such  a  look  I've  seen  him  fly, 

Wafted  by  angels  to  the  sky. 
And  lost  in  endless  tracks  of  light ; 
While  I  abandon'd  and  forlorn, 
To  dark  and  dismal  deserts  borne, 
Through  lonely  wilds  have  seem'd  to  stray, 
A  long  uncomfortable  way. 

They're  phantoms  all ;  I'll  think  no  more : 

My  life  has  endless  joys  in  store. 

Farewel  sorrow,  farewel  fear, 

They're  phantoms  all !  my  Henry's  here. 


SCENE    II. 

A  Postern  Gate  of  the  Bower. 

Grideline  and  Page. 

Grideline.     My  stomach  swells  with  secret  spite, 
To  see  my  fickle,  faithless  knight. 
With  upright  gesture,  goodly  mien. 
Face  of  olive,  coat  of  green, 
That  charmed  the  ladies  long  ago. 
So  little  his  own  worth  to  know, 


ROSAMOND.  245 

On  a  meer  girl  his  thoughts  to  place, 
With  dimpled  cheeks,  and  baby  face  ; 
A  child  !  a  chit !  that  was  not  born. 
When  I  did  town  and  court  adorn. 

Page.     Can  any  man  prefer  fifteen 
To  venerable  Grideline  ? 

Grideline.     He  does,  my  child  :  or  tell  me  why 
With  weeping  eyes  so  oft  I  spy 
His  whiskers  curl'd,  and  shoe  strings  ty'd, 
A  new  Toledo  by  his  side, 
In  shoulder-belt  so  trimly  plac'd 
With  band  so  nicely  smooth'd  and  lac'd. 

Page.     If  Rosamond  his  garb  has  view'd. 
The  knight  is  false,  the  nymph  subdu'd. 

Grideline.     My  anxious  boding  heart  divines 
His  falsehood  by  a  thousand  signs  : 
Oft  o'er  the  lonely  rocks  he  walks, 
And  to  the  foolish  echo  talks  ; 
Oft  in  the  glass  he  rolls  his  eye, 
But  turns  and  frowns  if  I  am  by ; 
Then  my  fond  easy  heart  beguiles. 
And  thinks  of  Rosamond,  and  smiles. 

Page.     Well  may  you  feel  these  soft  alarms^ 
She  has  a  heart 

Grideline.     And  he  has  charms. 

Page.     Your  fears  are  too  just. 

Grideline.     Too  plainly  I've  prov'd 

Both.     He  loves  and  is  lov'd. 

Grideline.     0  merciless  fate  ! 

Page.     Deplorable  state! 

Grideline.     To  die 

Page.     To  be  slain 


246  DRAMAS. 

Grideline.     By  a  barbarous  swain, 

Both.     That  laughs  at  your  pain. 

Grideline.     How  shou'd  I  act  ?  canst  thou  advise 

Page.     Open  the  gate  if  you  are  wise ; 
I,  in  an  unsuspected  hour, 
May  catch  them  dallying  in  the  bower, 
Perhaps  their  loose  amours  prevent. 
And  keep  Sir  Trusty  innocent. 

Grideline.     Thou  art  in  truth 
A  forward  youth, 
Of  wit  and  parts  above  thy  age ; 
Thou  know'st  our  sex.     Thou  art  a  page. 
Page.     I'll  do  what  I  can 
To  surprise  the  false  man. 

Grideline.     Of  such  a  faithful  spy  I've  need  :* 
Go  in,  and  if  thy  plot  succeed. 
Fair  youth,  thou  may'st  depend  on  this, 
I'll  pay  thy  service  with  a  kiss.  \^Exit  Page. 

Grideline,  sola.     Prithee  Cupid  no  more 
Hurl  thy  darts  at  threescore, 
To  thy  girls  and  thy  boys 
Give  thy  pains  and  thy  joys. 
Let  Sir  Trusty  and  me 
From  thy  frolics  be  free.  \^Exit  Grid. 

SCENE    III. 

Page,  solus.     0  the  soft  delicious  view. 
Ever  charming,  ever  new  ! 
Greens  of  various  shades  arise, 
Deck'd  with  flow'rs  of  various  dies  : 

■  An  opening  scene  discovers  another  view  of  the  bower. 


ROSAMOND.  *2A7 

Paths  by  meeting  paths  are  crest, 
Alleys  in  winding  alleys  lost ; 
Fountains  playing  through  the  trees, 
Give  coolness  to  the  passing  breeze. 
A  thousand  fairy  scenes  appear, 
Here  a  grove,  a  grotto  here. 
Here  a  rock,  and  here  a  stream, 
Sweet  delusion, 
Gray  confusion,. 
All  a  vision,  all  a  dream ! 

SCENE    IV. 
Queen  and  Page. 

Queen.     At  length  the  bow'ry  vaults  appear 
My  bosom  heaves,  and  pants  with  fear : 
A  thousand  checks  my  heart  controul, 
A  thousand  terrors  shake  my  soul. 

Page.     Behold  the  brazen  gate  unbarr'd  ! 
— She's  fixt  in  thought,  I  am  not  heard —  [^Apart 

Queen.     I  see,  I  see  my  hands  embru'd 
In  purple  streams  of  reeking  blood : 
I  see  the  victim  gasp  for  breath. 
And  start  in  agonies  of  death : 
I  see  my  raging  dying  lord, 
And  0,  I  see  myself  abhorr'd ! 

Page.     My  eyes  o'erflow,  my  heart  is  rent 
To  hear  Britannia's  queen  lament.  [^Aside. 

Queen.     What  shall  my  trembling  soul  pursue  ? 

Page.     Behold,  great  queen,  the  place  in  view  ! 

Queen.     Ye  pow'rs  instruct  me  what  to  do  ! 
Page.     That  bow'r  will  show 
The  guilty  foe. 


248  DRAMAS.  , 

Queen.     It  is  decreed — it_shall  be  so  ;  [After  a  pause 
I  cannot  see  my  lord  repine 
(0  that  I  could  call  him  mine !) 
Why  have  not  they  most  charms  to  mjve, 
Whose  bosoms  burn  with  purest  love  ? 

Page.     Her  heart  with  rage  and  fondness  glows. 
O  jealousy,  thou  hell  of  woes  !  [Aside 

That  conscious  scene  of  love  contains 
The  fatal  cause  of  all  your  pains ; 
In  yonder  flow'ry  vale  she  lies, 
Where  those  fair-blossom'd  arbors  rise. 
Queen.     Let  us  haste  to  destroy 
Her  guilt  and  her  joy. 
Wild  and  frantic  is  my  grief! 

Fury  driving, 

Mercy  striving, 
Heaven  in  pity  send  relief! 

The  pangs  of  love 

Ye  pow'rs  remove. 
Or  dart  your  thunder  at  my  head : 

Love  and  despair 

What  heart  can  bear  ? 
Ease  my  soul,  or  strike  me  dead  !  [Exeunt, 


SCENE   V. 
The  Scene  changes  to  tJie  Pavilion  as  he/ore. 

Rosamond  sola.    Transporting  pleasure  !  who  can  tell  it 
When  our  longing  eyes  discover 
The  kind,  the  dear,  approaching  lover, 

Who  can  utter,  or  conceal  it ! 


ROSAMOND.  249 

A  sudden  motion  shakes  the  grove : 
I  hear  the  steps  of  him  I  love ; 
Prepare,  my  soul,  to  meet  thy  bliss 
— Death  to  my  eyes  ;  what  sight  is  this  ? 
The  queen,  th'  offended  queen  I  see ; 
Open,  0  earth  !  and  swallow  me ! 

SCENE    VI. 

Enter  to  Tier  the  Queen^  with  a  Bowl  in  oneHamd^  and  a  Dagger  in 

the  other. 

Queen.     Thus  arm'd  with  double  death  I  come : 
Behold,  vain  wretch,  behold  thy  doom ! 
Thy  crimes  to.  their  full  period  tend, 
And  soon  by  this,  or  this,  shall  end. 

Rosamond.     What  shall  I  say,  or  how  reply 
To  threats  of  injur'd  majesty  ? 

Queen.     'Tis  guilt  that  does  thy  tongue  controul. 
Or  quickly  drain  the  fatal  bowl,  ^ 
Or  this  right  hand  performs  its  part. 
And  plants  a  dagger  in  thy  heart. 

Rosamond.     Can  Britain's  queen  give  such  commands. 
Or  dip  in  blood  those  sacred  hands  ? 
In  her  shall  such  revenge  be  seen  ? 
Far  be  that  from  Britain's  queen  ! 

Queen.     How  black  does  my  design  appear  ! 
Was  ever  mercy  so  severe  ?  [^Aside. 

*  Cast  off  from  thee  those  robes,  she  said, 
That  ri(!he  and  costlye  bee ; 
And  drinke  thou  up  this  deadlye  draught 
•  *     Which  I  have  brought  to  thee.       Ut,  snp, 

VOL.  I. — 11* 


250  DRAMAS. 

KosAMOND.     When  tides  of  youthful  blood  run  high,' 
And  scenes  of  promis'd  joys  are  nigh, 
Health  presuming, 
Beauty  blooming, 
0  how  dreadful  'tis  to  die ! 

Queen.     To  those  whom  foul  dishonours  stain, 
Life  itself  should  be  a  pain. 

Rosamond.    Who  could  resist  great  Henry's  charms. 
And  drive  the  hero  from  her  arms  ? 


Think  on  the  soft,  the  tender  fires, 
Melting  thoughts,  and  gay  desires. 
That  in  your  own  warm  bosom  rise. 
When  languishing  with  love-sick  eyes 
That  great,  that  charming  man  you  see  * 
Think  on  yourself,  and  pity  me  ! 

Queen,     And  dost  thou  thus  thy  guilt  deplore  ? 

{^Offering  the  dagger  to  her  breast. 
Presumptuous  woman  plead  no  more  ! 

Rosamond.     0  queen,  your  lifted  arm  restrain  ! 
Behold  these  tears  ! 

Queen.     They  flow  in  vain. 

Rosamond.     Look  with  compassion  on  my  fate.  ^ 
0  hear  my  sighs  ! 

Queen.     They  rise  too  late. 
Hope  not  a  day's,  an  hour's  reprieve. 

*  Take  pitty  on  my  youthful!  yeares, 
Fair  Rosamond  did  cry, 
And  lett  mee  not  with  poison  stronge 
Enforced  bee  to  dye.         Vt  suji. 


RObAMOND.  25 1 

Rosamond,     The'  I  live  wretched,  let  me  live,' 
In  some  deep  dungeon  let  me  lie, 
Cover'd  from  ev'ry  human  eye, 
Banish'd  the  day,  debarr'd  the  ligh*  ^ 
Where  shades  of  everlasting  night 
May  this  unhappy  face  disarm,  ^ 
And  cast  a  veil  o'er  ev'ry  charm : 
Offended  heaven  I'll  there  adore,N 
Nor  see  the  sun,  nor  Henry  more. 

Queen.     Moving  language,  shining  tears, 
Glowing  guilt,  and  graceful  fears, 
Kindling  pity,  kindling  rage, 
At  once  provoke  me,  and  assuage.  [^Aside. 

Rosamond.     What  shall  I  do  to  pacify 
Your  kindled  vengeance  ? 

Queen.     Thou  shalt  die.  {^Offering  the  dagger. 

Rosamond.     Give  me  hut  one  short  moment's  stay. 
— 0  Henry,  why  so  far  away  ?  [^Aside. 

Queen.     Prepare  to  welter  in  a  flood 
Of  streaming  gore.  [  Offering  the  dagger. 

Rosamond.     0  spare  my  blood,  \her  hand. 

And  let  me  grasp  the  deadly  bowl.*     [^Takes  the  bowl  in 

Queen.     Ye  pow'rs,  how  pity  rends  my  soul !     \^Aside. 

Rosamond.     Thus  prostrate  at  your  feet  I  fall. 
O  let  me  still  for  mercy  call !      [Falling  on  her  knees. 

*  And  for  the  fault  which  I  have  done, 

Though  I  was  forc'd  theretoe, 
Preserve  my  life,  and  punish  raee 
As  you  thinke  meet  to  doe. 

*  The  cup  of  deadlye  poyson  stronge. 

As  she  knelt  on  her  knee, 
She  gave  this  comelye  dame  to  drinke : 
Who  tooke  it  in  her  hand Ut.  sup. 


252  DRAMAS. 

Accept,  great  queen,  like  injur'd  heaven, 
The  soul  that  begs  to  be  forgiven  r 
If  in  the  latest  gasp  of  breath, 
If  in  the  dreadful  pains  of  death, 
When  the  cold  damp  bedews  your  brow, 
You  hope  for  mercy,  show  it  now. 

Queen.     Mercy  to  lighter  crimes  is  due, 
Horrors  and  death  shall  thine  pursue. 

[^Offering  the  dagger. 

KosAMOND.     Thus  I  prevent  the  fatal  blow.     {^Drinks. 
— Whither,  ah  !  whither  shall  I  go  ? 

Queen.     Where  thy  past  life  thou  shalt  lament, 
And  wish  thou  hadst  been  innocent. 

Rosamond.     Tyrant !  to  aggravate  the  stroke. 
And  wound  a  heart,  already  broke  ! 
My  dying  soul  with  fury  burns. 
And  slighted  grief  to  madness  turns. 

Think  not,  thou  author  of  my  woe, 

That  Kosamond  will  leave  thee  so  ; 
At  dead  of  night, 
A  glaring  sprite, 
With  hideous  screams, 
I'll  haunt  thy  dreams. 

And  when  the  painful  night  withdraws. 

My  Henry  shall  revenge  my  cause. 
0  whither  does  my  frenzy  drive  ! 
Forgive  my  rage,  your  wrongs  forgive. 
My  veins  are  froze  ;  my  blood  grows  chill ; 
The  weary  springs  of  life  stand  still ; 
The  sleep  of  death  benumbs  all  o'er 
My  fainting  limbs,  and  I'm  no  more.    \^Falh  on  the  coucn. 


ROSAMOND 


253 


/, 


Queen.     Hear  and  observe  your  queen's  commands. 

[To  her  attendants. 
Beneath  those  hills  a  convent  stands, 
"Where  the  fam'd  streams  of  Isis  stray  ; 
Thither  the  breathless  corse  convey, 
And  bid  the  cloister'd  maids  with  care 
The  due  solemnities  prepare. 

[Exeunt  with  the  hody. 
When  vanquish'd  foes  beneath  us  lie 
How  great  it  is  to  bid  them  die ! 
But  how  much  greater  to  forgive. 


And  bid  a  vanquish'd  foe  to  live ! 


[Exit. 


SCENE    YII. 

Sir  Trusty,  in  a  fright. 

A  breathless  corps  !  what  have  I  seen  ? 
And  folio w'd  by  the  jealous  queen  ! 
It  must  be  she  !  my  fears  are  true ; 
The  bowl  of  pois'nous  juice  I  view. 
How  can  the  fam'd  Sir  Trusty  live 
To  hear  his  master  chide  and  grieve  ? 
No  !  tho'  I  hate  such  bitter  beer, 
Fair  Rosamond,  I'll  pledge  thee  here. 
The  king  this  doleful  news  shall  read 
In  lines  of  my  inditing : 
Great  Sir, 

*  Your  Rosamond  is  dead 
*  As  I  am  at  this  present  writing.' 
The  bower  turns  round,  my  brain's  abus'd, 
The  labyrinth  grows  more  confus'd, 


[Brinks. 


[  Writes. 


254  .  DRAMAS. 

The  thickets  dance — I  stretch,  I  yawn. 
Death  has  tripp'd  up  my  heels — I'm  gone. 

[Staggers  and  falls 

SCENE    VIII. 

Queen  sola.     The  conflict  of  my  mind  is  o'er, 
And  Rosamond  shall  charm  no  more. 
Hence  ye  secret  damps  of  care, 
Fierce  disdain,  and  cold  despair, 
Hence  ye  fears  and  doubts  remove ; 
Hence  grief  and  hate  ! 
Ye  pains  that  wait 
On  jealousy,  the  rage  of  love.    . 

My  Henry  shall  be  mine  alone, 
The  hero  shall  be  all  my  own ; 
Nobler  joys  possess  my  heart 
Than  crowns  and  sceptres  can  impart. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE    I. 

Scene  a  Grotto,  Heni'y  asleep,  a  Cloud  descends,  in  it  two  Angels,  sup- 
posed to  le  the  guardian  Spirits  of  the  British  Kings  in  War  and 
in  Peace. 

First  Angel.     Behold  th'  unhappy  monarch  there. 
That  claims  our  tutelary  care  ! 

Second  Angel.     In  fields  of  death  around  his  head 
A  shield  of  adamant  I  spread. 

First  Angel.     In  hours  of  peace,  unseen,  unknown, 
I  hover  o'er  the  British  throne. 


I 
ROSAMOND.  255 

Second  Angel.     When  hosts  of  foes  with  foes  engage, 
And  round  th'  anointed  hero  rage, 
The  cleaving  fauchion  I  misguide, 
And  turn  the  feather'd  shaft  aside. 

First  Angel.     When  dark  fermenting  factions  swell, 
And  prompt  the  ambitious  to  rebel, 
A  thousand  terrors  I  impart. 
And  damp  the  furious  traitor's  heart. 

Both.     But,  oh  !  what  influence  can  remove 
The  pangs  of  grief  and  rage  of  love ! 
Second  Angel.     I'll  fire  his  soul  with  mighty  themes 

Till  love  before  ambition  fly. 
First  Angel.     I'll  sooth  his  cares  in  pleasing  dreams 

Till  grief  in  joyful  raptures  die. 

Second  Angel.     Whatever  glorious  and  renown'd 
In  British  annals  can  be  found ; 
Whatever  actions  shall  adorn 
Britannia's  heroes,  yet  unborn. 
In  dreadful  visions  shall  succeed  ; 
On  fancy'd  fields  the  Gauls  shall  bleed, 
Cressy  shall  stand  before  his  eyes, 
And  Agincourt  and  Blenheim  rise. 

First  Angel.     See,  see,  he  smiles  amidst  his  trance, 
And  shakes  a  visionary  lance, 
His  brain  is  fill'd  with  loud  alarms ; 
Shouting  armies,  clashing  arms. 
The  softer  prints  of  love  deface ; 
And  trumpets  sound  in  ev'ry  trace. 
Both.     Glory  strives ! 

The  field  is  won  ! 
Fame  revives 
And  love  is  gone. 


256  DRAMAS. 

First  Angel.     To  calm  thy  grief,  and  lull  tliy  cares, 
Look  up  and  see 
What,  after  long  revolving  years,^ 

Thy  bower  shall  be  ! 
When  time  its  beauties  shall  deface, 
And  only  with  its  ruins  grace 
The  future  prospect  of  the  place. 
Behold  the  glorious  pile  ascending !  * 
Columns  swelling,  arches  bending, 
Domes  in  awful  pomp  arising, 
Art  in  curious  strokes  surprising, 
Foes  in  figur'd  fights  contending, 
Behold  the  glorious  pile  ascending ! 

Second  Angel.     He  sees,  he  sees  the  great  reward 
For  Anna's  mighty  chief  prepar'd  : 
His  growing  joys  no  measure  keep, 
Too  vehement  and  fierce  for  sleep. 
First  Angel.     Let  grief  and  love  at  once  engage. 
His  heart  is  proof  to  all  their  pain  ; 
Love  may  plead 

Second  Angel.     And  grief  may  rage — 

Both.     But  both  shall  plead  and  rage  in  vain. 

[  The  Angels  ascend,  and  the  vision  disappears 

Henry,  (starting  from  the  couch,) 
Where  have  my  ravish'd  senses  been  1 
What  joys,  what  wonders,  have  I  seen ! 
The  scene  yet  stands  before  my  eye, 
A  thousand  glorious  deeds  that  lie 

*  What  after  rolling  years.     "When  these  lines  were  written  Blenheim 
castle  was  building  under  the  direction  of  Sir  John  Vanbrugh.— G. 

*  Scene  changes  to  the  Plan  of  Blenheim  Castle. 


ROSAMOND.  257 

In  deep  futurity  obscure, 
Fights  and  triurapiis  immature, 
Heroes  immers'd  in  time's  dark  womb, 
Kipening  for  mighty  years  to  come. 
Break  forth,  and,  to  the  day  display'd, 
My  soft  inglorious  hours  upbraid. 
Transported  with  so  bright  a  scheme. 
My  waking  life  appears  a  dream. 

Adieu,  ye  wanton  shades  and  bowers. 
Wreaths  of  myrtle,  beds  of  flowers, 

Kosy  brakes. 

Silver  lakes. 

To  love  and  you 

A  long  adieu ! 

0  Rosamond !  0  rising  woe  ! 

Why  do  my  weeping  eyes  o'erflow  ? 

0  Rosamond  !  0  fair  distress'd  ! 

How  shall  my  heart,  with  grief  oppress'd, 

Its  unrelenting  purpose  tell ; 

And  take  the  long,  the  last  farewel  ? 

Rise,  glory,  rise  in  all  thy  charms,  * 

Thy  waving  crest,  and  burnish'd  arms, 

Spread  thy  gilded  banners  round. 

Make  thy  thundering  courser  bound, 

Bid  the  drum  and  trumpet  join, 

Warm  my  soul  with  rage  divine  ; 

All  thy  pomps  around  thee  call : 

To  conquer  love  will  ask  them  all.  [  Exit. 


258  DRAMAS 


SCENE    II 


The  Scene  changes  to  that  Part  of  the  Bower  where  Sir  Trusty  liei 
upon  the  Ground^  with  the  Bowl  and  Bagger  on  the  Table. 

Eiiter  Queen. 

Every  star,  and  every  pow'r, 
Look  down  on  this  important  hour 
Lend  your  protection  and  defence 
Every  guard  of  innocence  ! 
Help  me  my  Henry  to  assuage, 
To  gain  his  love  or  bear  his  rage. 

Mysterious  love,  uncertain  treasure, 
Hast  thou  more  of  pain  or  pleasure ! 

Chill'd  with  tears, 

Kill'd  with  fears, 
Endless  torments  dwell  about  thee : 
Yet  who  would  live,  and  live  without  thee  ! 

But  oh  the  sight  my  soul  alarms . 

My  lord  appears,  I'm  all  on  fire  ! 
Why  am  I  banish'd  from  his  arms  ?   > 

My  heart's  too  full,  I  must  retire. 

[^Retires  to  the  end  of  the  stage. 

» 

SCENE    III. 

King  and  Queen. 

King.     Some  dreadful  birth  of  fate  is  near . 
Or  why,  my  soul,  unus'd  to  fear. 
With  secret  horror  dost  thou  shake  ? 
Can  dreams  such  dire  impressions  make  ! 


ROSAMOND. 


259 


What  means  this  solemn,  silent  show  ? 
This  pomp  of  death,  this  scene  of  woe  ! 
Support  me,  heaven  !  what's  this  I  read  ? 
Oh  horror  !  Rosamond  is  dead. 
What  shall  I  say,  or  whither  turn  ? 
With  grief,  and  rage,  and  love,  I  burn ; 
From  thought  to  thought  my  soul  is  tost, 
And  in  the  whirl  of  passion  lost. 
Why  did  I  not  in  battle  fall, 
Crush'd  by  the  thunder  of  the  Gaul  ? 
Why  did  the  spear  my  bosom  miss  ? 
Ye  pow'rs,  was  I  reserv'd  for  this ! 

Distracted  with  woe 
I'll  rush  on  the  foe 

To  seek  my  relief : 
The  sword  or  the  dart 
Shall  pierce  my  sad  heart, 

And  finish  my  grief ! 


Library. 


Of 


Ctiifbm^ 


Queen.     Fain  wou'd  my  tongue  his  griefs  appease, 
And  give  his  tortur'd  bosom  ease.  [^Aside. 

King.     But  see !  the  cause  of  all  my  fears, 
The  source  of  all  my  grief  appears  !  * 

No  unexpected  guest  is  here ; 
The  fatal  bowl 
Inform'd  my  soul 
Eleonora  was  too  near. 

Queen.     Why  do  I  here  my  lord  receive  ? 

King.     Is  this  the  welcome  that  you  give  ? 

Queen.     Thus  shou'd  divided  lovers  meet  ? 

Both.     And  is  it  thus,  ah  !  thus  we  greet  I 


260  DRAMAS. 

Queen.     What,  in  these  guilty  shades,  cou'd  you, 
Inglorious  conqueror,  pursue? 

King.     Cruel  woman,  what  cou'd  you  ? 
Queen.     Degenerate  thoughts  have  fir'd  your  breast 
King.     The  thirst  of  blood  has  yours  possess'd. 
Queen.     A  heart  so  unrepenting, 
King.     A  rage  so  unrelenting. 
Both.     Will  for  ever 

Love  dissever, 
Will  for  ever  break  our  rest. 
King.     Floods  of  sorrow  will  I  shed 

To  mourn  the  lovely  shade  ! 
My  Rosamond,  alas  !  is  dead. 
And  where,  0  where  convey'd  ! 

So  bright  a  bloom,  so  soft  an  air, 

Did  ever  nymph  disclose  ! 
The  lily  was  not  half  so  fair. 

Nor  half  so  sweet  the  rose. 

Queen.     How  is  his  heart  with  anguish  torn !     [Asifie. 
My  lord,  I  cannot  see  you  mourn ; 
The  living  you  lament :  while  I, 
To  be  lamented  so,  cou'd  die. 

King.     The  living !  speak,  oh  speak  again ! 
Why  will  you  dally  with  my  pain  ? 

Queen.     Were  your  lov'd  Rosamond  alive, 
Would  not  my  former  wrongs  revive  ? 

King.     Oh  no  ;  by  visions  from  above 
Prepar'd  for  grief,  and  freed  from  love, 
I  came  to  take  my  last  adieu. 

Queen.     How  am  I  bless'd  if  this  be  true  ! —      Aside, 


ROSAMOND.  261 

King.     And  leave  th'  unhappy  nymph  for  you. 
But  0 ! 

Queen.     Forbear,  my  lord,  to  grieve, 
And  know  your  Rosamond  does  live. 

If  'tis  joy  to  wound  a  lover. 

How  much  more  to  give  him  ease  ? 
When  his  passion  we  discover, 

Oh  how  pleasing  'tis  to  please  ! 
The  bliss  returns,  and  we  receive 
Transports  greater  than  we  give. 

King.     0  quickly  relate 
This   riddle  of  fate ! 
My  impatience  forgive. 
Does  Rosamond  live  ? 
Queen.     The  bowl,  with  drowsy  juices  fiU'd, 
From  cold  Egyptian  drugs  distill' d. 
In  borrow'd  death  has  clos'd  her  eyes  : 
But  soon  the  waking  nymph  shall  rise, 
And,  in  a  convent  plac'd,  admire 
The  cloister'd  walls  and  virgin  choir ; 
With  them  in  songs  and  hymns  divine 
The  beauteous  penitent  shall  join, 
And  bid  the  guilty  world  adieu. 

King.     How  am  I  blest  if  this  be  true !  [Aside* 

Queen.     Atoning  for  herself  and  you. 
King.     I  ask  no  more !  secure  the  fair 
In  life  and  bliss  :  I  ask  not  where : 
For  ever  from  my  fancy  fled 
May  the  whole  world  believe  her  dead, 


262  DRAMAS. 

That  no  foul  minister  of  vice 
Again  my  sinking  soul  entice 
Its  broken  passion  to  renew, 
But  let  me  live  and  die  with  you. 

Queen.     How  does  my  heart  for  such  a  prize 
The  vain  censorious  world  despise ! 
Tho'  distant  ages,  yet  unborn,    . 
For  Rosamond  shall  falsely  mourn, 
And  with  the  present  times  agree, 
To  brand  my  name  with  cruelty ; 
How  does  my  heart  for  such  a  prize 
The  vain  censorious  world  despise  ! 

But  see  your  slave,  while  yet  I  speak. 
From  his  dull  trance  unfetter'd  break ! 
As  he  the  potion  shall  survive 
Believe  your  Rosamond  alive. 

King.     0  happy  day  !  0  pleasing  view  ! 
My  queen  forgives; — 

Queen.     My  lord  is  true. 

King.     No  more  I'll  change, 

Queen.     No  more  I'll  grieve : 

Both.     But  ever  thus  united  live. 

Sir  Trusty,  awaking.    In  which  world  am  II  all  I  see, 
EvVy  thicket,  bush  and  tree. 
So  like  the  place  from  whence  I  came. 
That  one  wou'd  swear  it  were  the  same. 
My  former  legs  too,  by  their  pace  ! 
And  by  the  whiskers,  'tis  my  face  ! 
The  self-same  habit,  garb  and  mien  I 
They  ne'er  would  bury  me  in  green. 


ROSAMOND.  263 

SCENE    lY. 
Grideline  and  Sir  Trusty. 

Grideline.     Have  I  then  liv'd  to  see  this  hour, 
And  took  thee  in  the  very  bow'r  ? 

Sir  Trusty.     Widow  Trusty,  why  so  fine  ? 
"Why  dost  thou  thus  in  colours  shine  ? 
Thou  shou'dst  thy  husband's  death  bewail 
In  sable  vesture,  peak,  and  veil. 

Grideline.  *  Forbear  these  foolish  freaks,  and  see 
How  our  good  king  and  queen  agree. 
Why  shou'd  not  we  their  steps  pursue, 
And  do  as  our  superiors  do  ? 

Sir  Trusty.     Am  I  bewitch'd,  or  do  I  dream  ? 
I  know  not  who,  or  where  I  am, 
Or  what  I  hear,  or  what  I  see, 
But  this  I'm  sure,  howe'er  it  be, 
It  suits  a  person  in  my  station 
T'  obsepve  the  mode  and  be  in  fashion. 
Then  let  not  Grideline  the  chaste 
OflFended  be  for  what  is  past. 
And  hence  anew  my  vows  I  plight 
To  be  a  faithful  courteous  knight. 

Grideline.     I'll  too  my  plighted  vows  renew, 
Since  'tis  so  courtly  to  be  true. 
^      Since  conjugal  passion 

Is  come  into  fashion, 
And  marriage  so  blest  on  the  throne  is, 
Like  a  Venus  I'll  shine, 
Be  fond  and  be  fine. 
And  Sir  Trusty  shall  be  my  Adonis. 

Sir  Trusty.     And  Sir  Trusty  shall  be  thy  Adonis. 


264  DRAMAS 

The  King  and  Queen  advancing. 

King.     Who  to  forbidden  joys  wou'd  rovej* 
That  knows  the  sweets  of  virtuous  love  ? 
Hymen,  thou  source  of  chaste  delights, 
Chearful  days,  and  blissful  nights, 
Thou  dost  untainted  joys  dispense. 
And  pleasure  join  with  innocence  ! 
Thy  raptures  last,  and  are  sincere 
From  future  grief  and  present  fear.  . 

Both.     Who  to  forbidden  joys  wou'd  rove, 
That  knows  the  sweets  of  virtuous  love  ? 

*  Who  to  forbidden  joys.  So  careful  was  this  excellent  man,  **tos€t  our 
passions  on  the  side  of  truth"  even  in  his  gayest  and  slightest  comp,«i- 
tioas. 


THE    DRUMMEE, 

OR     THE     HAUNTED     HOUSE 


&ft  IT  IS   ACTED   AT  THE   THEATRE  ROYAL,  IN   DRURY   LANE,   BY  HI8 
MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 


Falsis  terroribus  linplet 

Ut  magus 


Witn  a  PREFACE  by  Sir  Richard  Steele,  in  an  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Mr. 
CoNGREVE,  occasioned  by  Mr.  Tickell's  PREFACE  to  the  four  Volumes 
of  Mr  Addison's  "Works. 


TOL.  I.--12 


INTRODUCTOEY    EEMAEKS. 

[This  piece  was  omitted  in  the  original  edition  of  Addison's  works  by 
Tickell,  in  which,  according  to  Miss  Aikin,  he  displayed  "  sounder  discre- 
tion "  than  Steele  did  in  republishing  it. 

Of  this  piece  Bealtie  says  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Cameron: — "The  Drum- 
mer is  in  my  opinion  one  of  the  best  dramatic  pieces  in  our  language." — 
Forbes'  Beattie,  let,  611. 

Macaulaj^'s  remarks  contain  probably  the  opinion  in  which  most  men 
of  taste  will  agree: 

"In  the  same  3'ear  (1115)  his  comedy  of  the  Dnrmmer  was  brought  on 
the  stage.  The  name  of  the  author  was  not  aan"inced:  the  piece  waa 
coldly  received:  and  some  critics  have  expressed  a  •  3ubt  whether  it  were 
really  Addison's.  To  us  the  evidence,  both  extercal  and  internal,  ceems 
decisive.  It  is  not  in  Addison's  best  manner ;  but  it  contains  numerous 
passages  which  no  other  writer  known  to  us  couht  have  produced.  It 
was  again  performed  after  Addison's  death,  and  b«'^ng  known  to  be  his, 
was  loudly  applauded." 

All  the  positive  knowledge  that  we  shall  probably  ever  have  about  the 
authorship  of  the  Drummer  is  contained  in  Steele's  "Epistle  Dedicatory  * 
to  Congreve. — G.} 


TO    MR.'   CONGREVE, 


OCCASIONED  BY  MR.    TICKELL'S  PREFACE  TO  THE  FOUR 
VOLUMES  OF  MR.  ADDISON'S  WORKS. 

Sir, — This  is  the  second  time  that  I  have,  without  your  leave, 
taken  the  liberty  to  make  a  public  address  to  you.  However 
uneasy  you  may  be,  for  your  own  sake,  in  receiving  compliments 
of  this  nature,  I  depend  upon  your  known  humanity  for  pardon, 
when  I  acknowledge,  that  you  have  this  present  trouble  for  mine. 
When  I  take  myself  to  be  ill-treated  with  regard  to  my  behaviour 
to  the  merit  of  other  men,  my  conduct  towards  you  is  an  argu- 
jient  of  my  candour  that  way,  as  well  as  that  your  name  and 
authority  will  be  my  protection  in  it.  You  will  give  me  leave, 
therefore,  in  a  matter  that  concerns  us  in  the  poetical  world,  to 
make  you  my  judge,  whether  I  am  not  injured  in  the  highest 
manner ;  for  with  men  of  your  taste  and  delicacy,  it  is  a  high 
crime  and  misdemeanour  to  be  guilty  of  any  thing  that  is  disin- 
genuous :  but  I  will  go  into  the  matter. 

Upon  my  return  out  of  Scotland,  I  visited  Mr.  Tonson's  shop, 
and  thanked  him  for  his  care  in  sending  to  my  house  the  volumes 
of  my  dear  and  honoured  friend,  Mr.  Addison,  which  are  at  last 
published  by  his  secretary,  Mr.  Tickell;  but  took  occasion  to 
observe,  that  I  had  not  seen  the  work  before  it  came  out,  which 
he  did  not  think  fit  to  excuse  any  otherwise  than  by  a  recrimina- 


268  DRAMAS. 

tion,  that  I  had  put  into  his  hands  at  an  high  price,  '  A  Comedy 
called  The  Drummer ;'  which,  by  my  zeal  for  it,  he  took  to  be 
written  by  Mr.  Addison,  and  of  which,  after  his  death,  he  said  I 
directly  acknowledged  he  was  the  author.  To  urge  this  hardship 
still  more  home,  he  produced  a  receipt  under  my  hand  in  these 
words : 

March  12,  1*7 15. 
"  Received  then  the  sum  of  fifty  guineas  for  the  copy  of  the 
comedy  called.  The  Drummer,  or  the  Haunted  House.      I  say 
received  by  order  of  the  author  of  the  said  comedy. 

"  Richard    Steele." 

And  added,  at  the  same  time,  that  since  Mr.  Tickell  had  not 
thought  fit  to  make  that  play  a  part  of  Mr.  Addison's  Works,  he 
would  sell  the  copy  to  any  bookseller  that  would  give  most  for  it. 

This  is  represented  thus  circumstantially,  to  shew  how  incum- 
bent it  is  upon  me,  as  well  in  justice  to  the  bookseller,  as  for 
many  other  considerations,  to  produce  this  comedy  a  second  time, 
and  take  this  occasion  to  vindicate  myself  against  certain  insinua- 
tions thrown  out  by  the  publisher  of  Mr.  Addison's  writings, 
concerning  my  behaviour  in  the  nicest  circumstance,  that  of  doing 
justice  to  the  merit  of  my  friend. 

I  shall  take  the  liberty,  before  I  have  ended  this  letter,  to 
say,  why  I  believe  the  Drummer  a  performance  of  Mr.  Addison : 
and  after  I  have  declared  this,  any  surviving  writer  may  be  at 
ease,  if  there  be  any  one  who  has  hitherto  been  vain  enough  to 
hope,  or  silly  enough  to  fear  it  may  be  given  to  himself. 

Before  I  go  any  further,  I  must  make  my  public  appeal  to 
you  and  all  the  learned  world,  and  humbly  demand,  whether  it 
was  a  decent  or  reasonable  thing,  that  works  written  (as  a  great 
part  of  Mr.  Addison's  were)  in  correspondence  with  me,  ought  to 
have  been  published  without  my  review  of  the  catalogue  of  them  ; 


I 


THE      DRUMMER.  •  269 

or  if  there  were  any  exception  to  be  made  against  any  circum- 
stance in  my  conduct,  whether  an  opportunity  to  explain  myself 
should  not  have  been  allowed  me  before  any  reflections  were  made 
upon  me  in  print. 

When  I  had  perused  Mr.  Tickell's  preface,  I  had  soon  many 
objections,  besides  his  omission  to  say  any  thing  of  the  Drummer, 
against  his  long  expected  performance.  The  chief  intention  of 
which,  and  which  it  concerns  me  first  to  examine,  seems  to  aim 
at  doing  the  deceased  author  justice  against  me,  whom  he  insinu- 
ates to  have  assumed  to  myself  part  of  the  merit  of  my  friend. 

He  is  pleased,  sir,  to  express  himself  concerning  the  present 
writer  in  the  following  manner : 

*  '  The  comedy  called,  The  Tender  Husband  appeared  much 
about  the  same  time,  to  which  Mr.  Addison  wrote  the  Prologue. 
Sir  Richard  Steele  surprised  him  with  a  very  handsome  dedica- 
tion of  this  play,  and  has  since  acquainted  the  public,  that  he 
owed  some  of  the  most  taking  scenes  of  it  to  Mr.  Addison.' 

*> '  He  was  in  that  kingdom,  [Ireland]  when  he  first  discovered 
Sir  Richard  Steele  to  be  the  author  of  the  Tatler,  by  an  observa- 
tion upon  Virgil,  which  had  been  by  him  communicated  to  his 
friend.  The  assistance  he  occasionally  gave  him  afterwards  in 
the  course  of  the  paper,  did  not  a  little  contribute  to  advance  its 
reputation ;  and,  upon  the  change  of  the  ministry,  he  found  leisure 
to  engage  more  constantly  in  that  work,  which,  however,  was 
dropt  at  last,  as  it  had  been  taken  up,  without  his  participation. 

'  In  the  last  paper,  which  closed  those  celebrated  perform- 
ances, and  in  the  preface  to  the  last  volume.  Sir  Richard  Steele 
has  given  to  Mr.  Addison  the  honour  of  the  most  applauded 
pieces  in  that  collection.  But  as  that  acknowledgment  was  de- 
livered only  in  general  terms,  without  directing  the  public  to  the 

•  Mr.  Tickell's  Preface,  page  12.  *>  Page  13. 


270  DRAMAS. 

Beveral  papers ;  Mr.  Addison,  who  was  content  with  the  praise 
arising  from  his  own  works,  and  too  delicate  to  tike  any  part  of 
that  which  belonged  to  others,  afterwards  thought  fit  to  distin- 
guish his  writings  in  the  Spectators  and  Guardians  by  such  marks 
as  might  remove  the  least  possibility  of  mistake  in  the  most  un- 
discerning  readers.  It  was  necessary  that  his  share  in  the  Tat- 
lers  should  be  adjusted  in  a  complete  collection  of  his  works  ;  for 
which  reason  Sir  Richard  Steele,  in  compliance  with  the  request 
of  his  deceased  friend,  delivered  to  him  by  the  editor,  was  pleased 
to  mark  with  his  own  hand  those  Tatlers  which  are  inserted  in 
this  edition,  and  even  to  point  out  several,  in  the  writing  of 
which  they  both  were,  concerned.' 

* '  The  plan  of  the  Spectator,  as  far  as  it  regards  the  feigned 
person  of  the  author,  and  of  the  several  characters  that  compose 
his  club,  was  projected  in  concert  with  Sir  Richard  Steele ;  and 
because  many  passages  in  the  course  of  the  work,  would  otherwise 
be  obscure,  I  have  taken  leave  to  insert  one  single  paper,  written 
by  Sir  Richard  Steele,  wherein  those  characters  are  drawn  which 
may  serve  as  a  Dramatis  Personce,  or  as  so  many  pictures  for  an 
ornament  and  explication  of  the  whole.  As  for  the  distinct  pa- 
pers, they  were  never  or  seldom  shown  to  each  other  by  their 
respective  authors,  who  fully  answered  the  promise  they  had 
made,  and  far  out-went  the  expectation  they  had  raised  of  pursu- 
ing their  labour  in  the  same  spirit  and  strength,  with  which  it  was 
begun.' 

It  need  not  be  explained,  that  it  is  here  intimated,  that  I  had 
not  sufl&ciently  acknowledged  what  Was  due  to  Mr.  Addison  in 
these  writings.  I  shall  make  a  full  answer  to  what  seems  in- 
tended by  the  words,  '  He  was  too  delicate  to  take  any  part  of 
that  which  belonged  to  others,'  if  I  can  recite  out  of  my  own  par 
pers,  any  thing  that  may  make  it  appear  groundless. 

»  Page  14. 


\ 


-I  THE      DRUMMER.  271 

The  subsequent  encomiums  bestowed  by  me  on  Mr.  Addison, 
will,  I  hope,  be  of  service  to  me  in  this  particular. 

*  '  But  I  have  only  one  gentleman,  *  who  will  be  nameless,'  to 
thank  for  any  frequent  assistance  to  me;  which,  indeed,  it  would 
have  been  barbarous  in  him  to  have  denied  to  one  with  whom  he 
has  lived  in  an  intimacy  from  childhood,  considering  the  great 
eaise  with  which  he  is  able  to  dispatch  the  most  entertaining 
pieces  of  this  nature.  This  good  office  he  performed  with  such 
force  of  genius,  humour,  wit  and  learning,  that  I  fared  like  a 
distressed  prince  who  calls  in  a  powerful  neighbour  to  his  aid ;  I 
was  undone  by  my  auxiliary :  when  I  had  once  called  him  in,  I 
could  not  subsist  without  dependance  on  him. 

*  The  same  hand  writ  the  distinguishing  characters  of  men  and 
women,  under  the  names  of  Musical  Instruments,  the  Distress  of 
the  News-Writers,  the  Inventory  of  the  Play-house,  and  the  De- 
scription of  the  Thermometer,  which  I  cannot  but  look  upon  as 
the  greatest  embellibhments  of  this  work.' 

*"  As  to  the  work  itself,  the  acceptance  it  has  met  with  is  the 
best  proof  of  its  value ;  but  I  should  err  against  that  candor 
which  an  honest  man  should  always  carry  about  him,  if  I  did  not 
own,  that  the  most  approved  pieces  in  it  were  written  by  others, 
and  those,  which  have  been  most  excepted  against,  by  myself. 
The  hand  that  has  assisted  me  in  those  noble  discourses  upon  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  the  glorious  prospects  of  another  life,  and 
the  most  sublime  ideas  of  religion  and  virtue,  is  a  person  who  is 
too  fondly  my  friend  ever  to  own  them :  but  I  should  little  de- 
serve to  be  his,  if  I  usurped  the  glory  of  them.  I  must  acknow- 
ledge, at  the  same  time,  that  I  think  the  finest  strokes  of  wit  and 
humour,  in  all  Mr.  Bickerstaff's  lucubrations,  are  those  for  which 
he  is  also  beholden  to  him.' 

•  '  I  hope  the  apology  I  have  made  as  to  the  license  allowable 

Preface  to  the  4tli  vol.  of  the  Tatlers.        »» Tatler,  No.  271. 


272  DRAMAS. 

to  a  feigned  character,  may  excuse  any  thing  which  has  been  said 
in  these  discourses  of  the  Spectator  and  his  works.  But  the 
imputation  of  the  grossest  vanity  would  still  dwell  upon  me,  if  I 
did  not  give  some  account  by  what  means  I  was  enabled  to  keep 
up  the  spirit  of  so  long  and  approved  a  performance.  All  the 
papers  marked  with  a  C,  L,  I,  or  0 ;  that  is  to  say,  all  the  papers 
which  I  have  distinguished  by  any  letter  in  the  name  of  the  muse 
CLIO,  were  given  me  by  the  gentleman,  of  whose  assistance  I 
formerly  boasted  in  the  preface  and  concluding  leaf  of  the  Tatler. 
I  am,  indeed,  much  more  proud  of  his  long-continued  friendship, 
than  I  should  be  of  the  fame  of  being  thought  the  author  of  any 
writings  which  he  himself  is  capable  of  producing.  I  remember 
when  I  finished  the  Tender  Husband,  I  told  him,  there  was  no- 
thing I  so  ardently  wish'd  as  that  we  might  some  time  or  other 
publish  a  work  written  by  us  both,  which  should  bear  the  name 
of  the  Monument,  in  memory  of  our  friendship.  I  heartily  wish 
what  I  have  done  here,  were  as  honorary  to  that  sacred  name, 
as  learning,  wit,  and  humanity,  render  those  pieces  which  I  have 
taught  the  reader  how  to  distinguish  for  his.  When  the  play 
above-mentioned  was  last  acted,  there  were  so  many  applauded 
strokes  in  it,  which  I  had  from  the  same  hand,  that  I  thought 
very  meanly  of  myself  that  I  had  never  publicly  acknowledged 
them.  After  I  have  put  other  friends  upon  importuning  him 
to  publish  dramatic,  as  well  as  other  writings  he  has  by  him, 
I  shall  end  what  I  think  I  am  obliged  to  say  on  this  head, 
by  giving  my  reader  this  hint  for  the  better  judging  of  my 
productions,  that  the  best  comment  upon  them,  would  be  an 
account  when  the  patron  to  the  Tender  Husband  was  in  England 
or  abroad. 

*  '  My  purpose,  in  this  application,  is  only  to  shew  the  esteem 

'  Spectator,  No.  555. 

''  Dedication  before  tlic  Tender  Husband. 


THKDRUMMER.  .    273 

I  have  for  you,  and  that  I  look  upon  my  intimacy  with  you  as  one 
of  the  most  valuable  enjoyments  of  my  life.' 

I  am  sure,  you  have  read  my  quotations  with  indignation 
against  the  little  zeal  which  prompted  the  editor,  who,  by  the 
way,  has  in  himself  done  nothing  in  applause  of  the  works  which 
he  prefaces,  to  the  mean  endeavours  of  adding  to  Mr.  Addison, 
by  disparaging  a  man  who  had,  for  the  greatest  part  of  his  life, 
been  his  known  bosom  friend,  and  shielded  him  from  all  the  re- 
sentments which  many  of  his  own  works  would  have  brought  upon 
him  at  the  time  in  which  they  were  written.  It  is  really  a  good 
office  to  society,  to  expose  the  indiscretion  of  intermeddlers  in  the 
friendship  and  correspondence  of  men,  whose  sentiments,  passions, 
and  resentments,  are  too  great  for  their  proportion  of  soul :  could 
the  editor's  indiscretion  provoke  me  even  so  far  as  within  the 
rules  of  strictest  honour  I  could  go,  and  I  were  not  restrained  by 
supererogatory  affection  to  dear  Mr.  Addison,  I  would  ask  this 
unskilful  creature  what  he  means,  when  he  speaks  in  the  air  of  a 
reproach,  that  the  Tatler  was  laid  down  as  it  was  taken  up,  with- 
out his  participation ;  let  him  speak  out  and  say,  why,  '  without 
his  knowledge,'  would  not  serve  his  purpose  as  well.  If,  as  he 
says,  he  restrains  himself  to  Mr.  Addison's  character,  as  a  writer, 
while  he  attempts  to  lessen  me,  he  exalts  me ;  for  he  has  declared 
to  all  the  world,  what  I  never  have  so  explicitly  done,  that  I  am, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  the  author  of  the  Tatler.  He  very 
justly  says,  the  occasional  assistance  Mr.  Addison  gave  me  in  the 
course  of  that  paper,  '  did  not  a  little  contribute  to  advance  its 
reputation,  especially  when,  upon  the  change  of  the  ministry,  he 
found  leisure  to  engage  more  constantly  in  it.'  It  was  advanced, 
indeed,  for  it  was  raised  to  a  greater  thing  than  I  intended  it : 
for  the  elegance,  purity,  and  correctness  which  appeared  in  his 
writings,  were  not  so  much  my  purpose,  as  in  any  intelligible 
manner  as  I  could,  to  rally  all  those  singularities  of  hitman  life, 


274  DRAMAS  . 

through  the  different  professions  and  characters  in  it,  which  ob- 
struct any  thing  that  was  truly  good  and  great.  After  this  ac- 
knowledgment you  will  see,  that  is,  such  a  man  as  you  will  see, 
that  I  rejoiced  in  being  excelled,  and  made  those  little  talents, 
whatever  they  are  which  I  have,  give  way  and  be  subservient  to 
the  superior  qualities  of  a  friend  whom  I  loved,  and  whose 
modesty  would  never  have  admitted  them  to  come  into  day-light 
but  under  such  a  shelter.  So  that  all  which  the  editor  has  said, 
either  out  of  design  or  incapacity,  Mr.  Congreve  must  determine 
to  end  in  this,  that  Steele  has  been  so  candid  and  upright,  that 
he  owes  nothing  to  Mr.  Addison,  as  a  writer ;  but  whether  he 
does,  or  does  not,  whatever  Steele  owes  to  Mr.  Addison,  the 
public  owes  Addison  to  Steele.  But  the  editor  has  such  a  fan- 
tastical and  ignorant  zeal  for  his  patron,  that  he  won't  allow  his 
correspondents  to  conceal  any' thing  of  his,  though  in  obedience 
to  his  commands.  What  I  never  did  declare  was  Mr.  Addison's, 
I  had  his  direct  injunctions  to  hide,  against  ^he  natural  warmth 
and  passion  of  my  own  temper  towards  my  friends.  Many  of  the 
writings  now  published  as  his,  I  have  been  very  patiently  traduced 
and  calumniated  for,  as  they  were  pleasantries  and  oblique  strokes 
upon  certain  the  wittiest  men  of  the  age,  who  will  now  restore 
me  to  their  good  will,  in  proportion  to  the  abatement  of  wit  which 
they  thought  I  employed  against  them.  But  I  was  saying,  that 
the  editor  won't  allow  us  to  obey  his  patron's  commands  in  any 
thing  which  he  thinks  would  redound  to  his  credit,  if  discovered. 
And  because  I  would  shew  a  little  wit  in  my  anger,  I  shall  have 
the  discretion  to  show  you,  that  he  lias  beej  guilty  in  this  par- 
ticular towards  a  much  greater  man  than  3  <'^ur  humble  servant, 
and  one  whom  you  are  more  obliged  to  vine  late.  Mr.  Drydeu 
in  his  Virgil,  after  having  acknowledged,  that  u  '  certain  excellent 
young  man '  had  shewed  him  many  faults  in  his  translation  of 
M,  which  he  had   endeavoured  to  correct,  goes  on  to  say 


THE     DRUMMER.  275 

*  Two  other  worthy  friends  of  mine,  who  desire  to  have  their 
names  concealed,  seeing  me  straitened  in  my  time,  took  pity  on 
me,  and  gave  me  the  life  of  Virgil,  the  two  prefaces  to  the  Pas- 
torals, and  the  Georgics,  and  all  the  arguments  in  prose  to  the 
whole  translation.'  If  Mr.  Addison  is  one  of  the  two  friends, 
and  the  preface  to  the  Georgics  be  what  the  editor  calls  the 
essay  upon  the  Georgics,  as  one  may  adventure  to  say  they  are, 
from  their  being  word  for  word  the  same,  he  has  cast  an  inhuman 
reflection  upon  Mr.  Dryden,  who,  though  tied  down  not  to  name 
Mr.  Addison,  pointed  at  him,  so  as  all  mankind  conversant  in 
these  matters  knew  him,  with  an  eulogium  equal  to  the  highest 
merit,  considering  who  it  was  that  bestowed  it.  I  could  not 
avoid  remarking  upon  this  circumstance,  out  of  justice  to  Mr. 
Dryden,  but  confess  at  the  same  time  I  took  a  great  pleasure  in 
doing  it,  because  I  knew  in  exposing  this  outrage,  I  made  my 
court  to  Mr.  Congreve. 

I  have  observed  that  the  editor  will  not  let  me  or  any  one 
else  obey  Mr.  Addison's  commands,  in  hiding  any  thing  he  desires 
should  be  concealed.  I  cannot  but  take  further  notice,  that  the 
circumstance  of  marking  his  Spectators,  which  I  did  not  know 
till  I  had  done  with  the  work,  I  made  my  own  act ;  because  I 
thought  it  too  great  a  sensibility  in  my  friend,  and  thought  it, 
since  it  was  done,  better  to  be  supposed  marked  by  me  than  the 
author  himself;  the  real  state  of  .which  this  zealot  rashly  and 
injudiciously  exposes.  I  ask  the  reader  whether  any  thing  but 
an  earnestness  to  disparage  me,  could  provoke  the  editor  in  behalf 
of  Mr.  Addison  to  say,  that  he  marked  it,  out  of  caution  against 
nie,  when  I  had  taken  upon  me  to  say,  it  was  I  that  did  it,  out 
of  tenderness  to  him. 

As  the  imputation  of  any  the  least  attempt  of  arrogating  to 
myself,  or  detracting  from  Mr.  Addison,  is  without  any  colour  of 
truth,  you  will  give  me  leave  to  go  on  in  the  same  ardour  towards 


276  DRAMAS. 

him,  and  resent  the  cold,  unaffectionate,  dry,  and  barren  manner 
which  this  gentleman  gives  an  account  of  as  great  a  benefactor, 
as  any  one  learned  man  ever  had  of  another.  Would  any  man, 
who  had  been  produced  from  a  college  life,  and  pushed  into  one 
of  the  most  considerable  employments  of  the  kingdom  as  to  its 
weight  and  trust,  and  greatly  lucrative  with  respect  to  a  fellow- 
ship, and  who  had  been  daily  and  hourly  with  one  of  the  greatest 
men  of  the  age,  be  satisfied  with  himself  in  saying  nothing  of 
such  a  person,  besides  what  all  the  world  knew,  except  a  par- 
ticularity, and  that  to  his  disadvantage,  which  I,  his  friend  from 
a  boy,  don't  know  to  be  true,  to  wit,  '  that  he  never  had  a  regu- 
lar pulse ! '  As  for  the  facts  and  considerable  periods  of  his 
life,  he  either  knew  nothing  of  them,  or  injudiciously  places  them 
in  a  worse  light  than  that  in  which  they  really  stood.  Whan  he 
speaks  of  Mr.  Addison's  declining  to  go  into  orders,  his  way  of 
doing  it  is,  to  lament  that  his  seriousness  and  modesty,  which 
might  have  recommended  him,  '  proved  the  chief  obstacles  to  it ; 
it  seems,  these  qualities,  by  which  the  priesthood  is  so  much 
adorned,  represented  the  duties  of  it  as  too  weighty  for  him,  and 
rendered  him  still  more  worthy  of  that  honour  which  they  made 
him  decline.'  These,  you  knew  very  well,  were  not  the  reasons 
which  made  Mr.  Addison  turn  his  thoughts  to  the  civil  world  : 
and  as  you  were  the  instrument  of  his  becoming  acquainted  with 
my  Lord  Halifax,  I  doubt  not  but  you  remember  the  warm  in- 
stances that  noble  lord  made  to  the  head  of  the  college  not  to 
insist  upon  Mr.  Addison's  going  into  orders ;  his  arguments  were 
founded  upon  the  general  pravity  and  corruption  of  men  of 
business,  who  wanted  liberal  education.  And  I  remember,  as  if 
I  had  read  the  letter  yesterday,  that  my  lord  ended  with  a  com- 
pliment, that  however  he  might  be  represented  as  no  friend  to 
the  cliurch,  he  never  would  do  it  any  other  injury  than  keeping 
Mr.  Addison  out  of  it.     The  contention  for  this  man  in  his  early 


THE      DRUMMER.  277 

youth  among  the  people  of  greatest  power,  Mr.  Secretary  Tickell, 
the  executor  for  his  fame,  is  pleased  to  ascribe  to  a  serious  visage 
and  modesty  of  behaviour.  When  a  writer  is  grossly  and  essen- 
tially faulty,  it  were  a  jest  to  take  notice  of  a  false  expression  or 
a  phrase  ;  otherwise  priesthood  in  that  place  might  be  observed 
upon  as  a  term  not  used  by  the  real  well-wishers  to  clergymen, 
except  when  they  would  express  some  solemn  act,  and  not  when 
that  order  is  spoke  of  as  a  profession  among  gentlemen :  I  will 
not,  therefore,  busy  myself  about  '  the  unconcerning  parts  of 
knowledge,  but  be  contented  like  a  reader  of  plain  sense  without 
politeness  : '  and,  since  Mr.  Secretary  will  give  us  no  account  of 
this  gentleman,  '  I  admit  the  Alps  and  Appenines,  instead  of  his 
editor,  to  be  commentators'  of  his  works,  which,  as  the  editor 
says,  '  have  raised  a  demand  for  correctness ; '  this  demand,  by 
the  way,  ought  to  be  more  strong  upon  those  who  were  most 
about  him,  and  had  the  greatest  advantage  of  'his  example.' 
But  our  editor  says,  '  that  those  who  come  the  nearest  to  exact- 
ness, are  but  too  often  fond  of  unnatural  beauties,  and  aim  at 
something  better  than  perfection.'  Believe  me,  sir,  Mr.  Addi- 
son's example  will  carry  no  man  further  than  that  height  for 
which  nature  capacitated  him :  and  the  affectation  of  following 
great  men  in  works  above  the  genius  of  their  imitators,  will  never 
rise  further  than  the  production  of  uncommon  and  unsuitable 
ornaments  in  a  barren  discourse,  like  flowers  upon  an  heath,  such 
as  the  author's  phrase  of  something  better  than  perfection  :  but, 
indeed,  his  preface,  if  ever  any  thing  was,  is  that  something  better, 
for  it  is  so  extraordinary,  that  we  cannot  say,  it  is  too  long  or 
too  short,  or  deny  tut  that  it  is  both.  I  think  I  abstract  myself 
from  all  manner  of  prejudice,  when  I  aver  that  no  man,  though 
without  any  obligation  to  Mr.  Addison,  would  have  represented 
him  in  his  family,  in  his  friendships,  or  his  personal  character,  so 
disadvantageously,  as  his  secretary,  in  preference  of  whom  he 


278  DRAMAS. 

incurred  the  warmest  resentments  of  other  gentlemen,  ha?  been 
pleased  to  describe  him  in  those  particulars. 

Mr.  Dean  Addison,  father  of  this  memorable  man,  left  behind 
him  four  children,  each  of  whom  for  excellent  talents  and  singular 
perfections  was  as  much  above  the  ordinary  world,  as  their  brother 
Joseph  was  above  them.  Were  things  of  this  nature  to  be  ex- 
posed to  public  view,  I  could  shew,  under  the  dean's  own  hand, 
in  the  warmest  terms,  his  blessing  on  the  friendship  between  his 
son  and  me ;  nor  had  he  a  child  who  did  not  prefer  me  in  the 
first  place  of  kindness  and  esteem,  as  their  father  loved  me  like 
one  of  them :  and  I  can  with  great  pleasure  say,  I  never  omitted 
any  opportunity  of  shewing  that  zeal  for  their  persons  and  interests 
as  became  a  gentleman  and  a  friend.  Were  I  now  to  indulge  my- 
self, I  could  talk  a  great  deal  to  you,  which  I  am  sure  would  be 
entertaining;  but  as  I  am  speaking  at  the  same  time  to  all  the 
world,  I  considered  it  would  be  impertinent :  let  me,  then,  con- 
fine myself  a  while  to  the  following  play,  which  I  at  first  recom- 
mended to  the  stage,  and  carried  to  the  press :  no  one  who  reads 
the  preface  which  I  published  with  it,  will  imagine  I  could  be 
induced  to  say  so  much  as  I  then  did,  had  I  not  known  the  man 
I  best  loved  had  had  a  part  in  it,  or  had  I  believed  that  any 
other  concerned  had  much  more  to  do  than  as  an  amanuensis. 

But,  indeed,  had  I  not  known,  at  the  time  of  the  transaction, 
concerning  the  acting  on  the  stage  and  sale  of  the  copy,  I  should, 
I  think,  have  seen  Mr.  Addison  in  every  page  of  it ;  for  he  was 
above  all  men  in  that  talent  we  call  humour,  and  enjoyed  it  in 
such  perfection,  that  I  have  reflected,  after  a  night  spent  with 
him  apart  from  all  the  world,  that  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  con- 
versing with  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  Terence  and  Catullus, 
who  had  all  their  wit  and  nature  heightened  with  humour,  more 
exquisite  and  delightful  than  any  other  man  ever  possessed. 
"^They  who  shall  read  this  play  after  being  let  into  the  secret^ 


THE     DRUMMER.  279 

that  it  was  writ  by  Mr.  Addison,  or  under  his  direction,  will 
probably  be  attentive  to  those  excellencies,  which  they  before 
overlooked,  and  wonder  they  did  not  till  now  observe,  that  there 
is  not  an  expression  in  the  whole  piece  which  has  not  in  it  tbo 
most  nice  propriety  and  aptitude  to  the  character  which  utters  it ; 
there  is  that  smiling  mirth,  that  delicate  satire,  and  genteel  rail- 
lery, which  appeared  in  Mr.  Addison  when  he  was  free  among 
intimates ;  I  say,  when  he  was  free  from  '  his  remarkable  '  bash- 
fulness,  which  is  a  cloak  that  hides  and  muffles  merit ;  and  his 
abilities  were  covered  only  by  modesty,  which  doubles  the  beauties 
which  are  seen,  and  gives  credit  and  esteem  to  all  that  are  con- 
cealed. 

xhe  Drummer  made  no  great  figure  on  the  stage,  though  ex- 
quisitely well  acted ;  but  when  1  observe  this,  I  say  a  much 
harder  thing  of  the  stage  than  of  the  comedy.  When  I  say  the 
stage  in  this  place,  I  am  understood  to  mean  in  general  the  present 
taste  of  theatrical  representations,  where  nothing  that  is  not  vio- 
lent, and,  as  I  may  say,  grossly  delightful,  can  come  on  without 
hazard  of  being  condemned,  or  slighted.  It  is  here  republished, 
and  recommended  as  a  closet-piece,  to  recreate  an  intelligent  mind 
in  a  vacant  hour  ;  for  vacant  the  reader  must  be  from  every  strong 
prepossession,  in  order  to  relish  an  entertainment  {quod  nequeo 
monstrare  et  sentio  tantum)  which  cannot  be  enjoyed  to  the 
degree  it  deserves,  but  by  those  of  the  most  polite  taste  among 
scholars,  the  best  breeding  among  gentlemen,  and  the  least  ac- 
quainted with  sensual  pleasure  among  ladies. 

The  editor  is  pleased  to  relate  concerning  Cato,  that  a  play 
under  that  design  was  projected  by  the  author  very  early,  and 
wholly  laid  aside  :  in  advanced  years  he  reassumed  the  same  de- 
sign, and  many  years  after  four  acts  were  finished,  he  writ  the 
fifth,  and  brought  it  upon  the  stage.  All  the  town  knows  how  ^ 
officious  I  was  in  bringing  it  on ;  and  you  that  know  the  town,  tho 


5^80  DRAMAS. 

theatre,  and  mankind,  very  well  can  judge  how  necessary  it  waa 
to  take  measures  for  making  a  performance  of  that  sort,  excellent 
as  it  is,  run  into  popular  applause,  I  promised  before  it  was  act- 
ed, and  performed  my  duty  accordingly  to  the  author,  that  I 
would  bring  together  so  just  an  audience  on  the  first  days  of  it, 
that  it  should  be  impossible  for  the  vulgar  to  put  its  success  or 
due  applause  to  any  hazard;  but  I  don't  mention  this  only  to 
shew,  how  good  an  aid-de-camp  I  was  to  Mr.  Addison,  but  to  shew 
also  that  the  editor  does  as  much  to  cloud  the  merit  of  his  work 
as  I  did  to  set  it  forth  :  Mr.  Tickell's  account  of  its  being  taken 
up,  laid  down,  and  at  last  perfected,  after  such  long  intervals  and 
pauses,  would  make  any  one  believe,  who  did  not  know  Mr.  Ad- 
dison, that  it  was  accomplished  with  the  greatest  pain  and  labour, 
and  the  issue  rather  of  learning  and  industry,  than  capacity  and 
genius ;  but  I  do  assure  you,  that  never  play,  which  could  bring 
the  author  any  reputation  for  wit  and  conduct,  notwithstanding  it 
was  so  long  before  it  was  finished,  employed  the  author  so  little  a 
time  in  writing ;  if  I  remember  right,  the  fifth  act  was  written  in 
less  than  a  week's  time ;  for  this  was  particular  in  this  writer, 
that  when  hre  had  taken  his  resolution,  or  made  his  plan  for  what 
he  designed  to  write,  he  would  walk  about  a  room  and  dictate  it 
into  language  with  as  much  freedom  and  ease  as  one  could  write 
it  down,  and  attend  to  the  coherence  and  grammar  of  what  he 
dictated.  I  have  been  often  thus  employed  by  him,  and  never 
took  it  into  my  head,  though  he  only  spoke  it,  and  I  took  all  the 
pains  of  throwing  it  upon  paper,  that  I  ought  to  call  myself  the 
writer  of  it.  I  will  put  all  my  credit  among  men  of  wit  for  the 
truth  of  my  averment,  when  I  presume  to  say,  that  no  one  but 
Mr.  Addison  was  in  any  other  way  the  writer  of  the  Drummer  ; 
at  the  same  time  I  will  allow,  that  he  sent  for  me,  which  he  could 
always  do,  from  his  natural  power  over  me,  as  much  as  he  could 
send  for  any  of  his  clerks  when  he  was  secretary  of  state,  and  told 


THEDRUMMER.  28 1 

me  that  *  a  gentleman  then  in  the  room  had  written  a  play  that 
he  was  sure  I  would  like,  but  it  was  to  be  a  secret,  and  he  knew 
I  would  take  as  much  pains,  since  he  recommended  it,  as  I  would 
for  him.' 

I  hope  nobody  will  be  wronged,  or  think  himself  aggrieved, 
that  I  give  this  rejected  work  where  I  do ;  and  if  a  certain  gen- 
tleman is  injured  by  it,  1  will  allow  I  have  wronged  him,  upon 
this  issue,  that  (if  the  reputed  translator  of  the  first  book  of  Ho- 
mer shall  please  to  give  us  another  book)  there  shall  appear  an- 
other good  judge  in  poetry,  besides  Mr.  Alexander  Pope,  who 
shall  like  it.  But  I  detain  you  too  long  upon  things  that  are  too 
personal  to  myself,  and  will  defer  giving  the  world  a  true  notion 
of  the  character  and  talents  of  Mr.  Addison,  till  I  can  speak  of 
that  amiable  gentleman  on  an  occasion  void  of  controversy  :  I 
shall  then,  perhaps,  say  many  things  of  him,  which  will  be  new 
even  to  you,  with  regard  to  him  in  all  parts  of  his  character ;  for 
which  I  was  so  zealous,  that  I  could  not  be  contented  with  prais- 
ing and  adorning  him  as  much  as  lay  in  my  own  power,  but  was 
ever  soliciting  and  putting  my  friends  upon  the  same  office.  And 
since  the  editor  has  adorned  his  heavy  discourse  with  prose  in 
rhyme  at  the  end  of  it  upon  Mr.  Addison's  death,  give  me  leave 
to  atone  for  this  long  and  tedious  epistle,  by  giving  you  after  it 
what  I  dare  say  you  will  esteem  an  excellent  poem  on  his  mar- 
riage. I  must  conclude  without  satisfying  as  strong  a  desire  as 
ever  man  had,  of  saying  something  remarkably  handsome  to  the 
person  to  whom  I  am  writing ;  for  you  are  so  good  a  judge,  that 
you  would  find  out  the  endeavourer  to  be  witty :  and,  therefore, 
as  I  have  tired  you  and  myself,  I  will  be  contented  with  assuring 
you,  which  I  do  very  honestly,  I  had  rather  have  you  satisfied 
with  me  on  this  subject,  than  any  other  man  living. 

You  will  please  to  pardon  me,  that  I  have,  thus,  laid  this  nice 
affair  before  a  person  who  has  the  acknowledged  superiority  to  aU 


282  DRAMAS. 

others,  not  only  in  the  most  excellent  talents,  but  possessing  with 
them  an  equanimity,  candour,  and  benevolence,  which  render  those 
advantages  a  pleasure  as  great  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  as  they 
can  be  to  the  owner  of  them.  And  since  fame  consists  in  the 
opinion  of  wise  and  good  men,  you  must  not  blame  me  for  taking 
the  readiest  way  to  baffle  an  attempt  upon  my  reputation,  by  an 
address  to  one  whom  every  wise  and  good  man  looks  upon  with 
the  greatest  affection  and  veneration.     I  am.  Sir, 

Your  most  obliged,  most  obedient,  and 

Most  humble  servant, 

Richard  Steele. 


TO  THE  COUNTESS  OF  WARWICK, 
ON    HER    MAERIAGE. 

BY  MR.  WELSTED. 

Ambition  long  has  woman's  heart  betray'd, 

And  tinsel  grandeur  caught  th'  unwary  maid ; 

The  pompous  styles,  that  strike  th'  admiring  throng, 

Have  glitter'd  in  the  eye  of  beauty  long  : 

You,  madam,  first  the  female  taste  improve. 

And  give  your  fellow-charmers  laws  for  love; 

A  pomp  you  covet,  not  to  heralds  known. 

And  sigh  for  virtues  equal  to  your  own: 

Part  in  a  man  immortal  greatly  claim. 

And  frown  on  titles  to  ally  with  fame  : 

Not  Edward's  star,  emboss'd  with  silver  rays, 

Can  vie  in  glory  with  thy  consort's  bays ; 

His  country's  pride  does  homage  to  thy  charms 

And  every  merit  crowds  into  thy  arms. 

While  others  gain  light  conquests  by  their  eyes, 
'Tis  thine  with  wisdom  to  subdue  the  wise ; 
To  their  soft  chains  while  courtly  beaux  submit, 
'Tis  thine  to  lead  in  triumph  captive  wit : 
Her  sighing  vassals  let  Clarinda  boast, 
Of  lace  and  languishing  cockades  the  toast : 


284  DRAMAS. 

In  beauty's  pride  unenvied  let  her  reign, 
And  share  that  wanton  empire  with  the  vain. 
For  thee  the  arts  of  Greece  and  Rome  combine ; 
And  all  the  glories,  Cato  gain'd,  are  thine : 
Still  Warwick  in  thy  boasted  rank  of  life, 
But  more  illustrious,  than  when  Warwick's  wife. 

Come  forth,  reveal  thyself,  thou  chosen  bride, 
And  shew  great  Nassau's  poet  by  thy  side ; 
Thy  bright  example  shall  instruct  the  fair, 
And  future  nymphs  shall  make  renown  their  care; 
Embroid'ry  less  shall  charm  the  virgin's  eye. 
And  kind  coquettes,  for  plumes,  less  frequent  die; 
Secure  shall  beauty  reign,  the  Muse  its  guard ; 
The  Muse  shall  triumph,  beauty  its  reward. 


THE    PREFACE. 

Having  recommended  this  play  to  the  town,  a.-d  delivered  ilie 
copy  of  it  to  the  bookseller,  I  think  myself  obliged  to  give  some 
account  of  it. 

It  had  been  some  years  in  the  hands  of  the  author,  and  falling 
under  my  perusal,  I  thought  so  well  of  it,  that  I  persuaded  him 
to  make  some  additions  and  alterations  to  it,  and  let  it  appear 
upon  the  stage.     I  own  I  was  very  highly  pleased  with  it,  and 
liked  it  the  better,  for  the  want  of  those  studied  similies  and  re- 
(  partees,  which  we,  who  have  writ  before  him,  have  thrown  into 
^our  plays,  to  indulge  and  gain  upon  a  false  taste  that  has  pre- 
vailed' for  many  years  in  the  British  theatre.     I  believe  the  au- 
thor would  have  condescended  to  fall  into  this  way  a  little  more 
than  he  has,  had  he,  before  the  writing  of  it,  been  often  present  at 
"theatrical  representations.     I  was  confirmed  in  my  thoughts  of 
the  play,  by  the  opinion  of  better  judges  to  whom  it  was  com- 
municated, who  observed  that  the  scenes  were  drawn  after  Moli- 
ere's  manner,  and  that  an  easy  and  natural  vein  of  humour  ran 
through  the  whole.  ♦ 

I  do  not  question  but  the  reader  will  discover  this,  and  see 
many  beauties  that  escaped  the  audience ;  the  touches  being  too 
delicate  for  every  taste  in  a  popular  assembly.  My  brother 
sharers  were  of  opinion,  at  the  first  reading  of  it,  that  it  was  like 
a  picture  in  which  the  strokes  were  not  strong  enough  to  appear 
at  a  distance.     As  it  is  not  in  the  common  way  of  writing,  the  ap- 


286  DRAMAS. 

probation  was  at  first  doubtful,  but  has  risen  every  time  it  has 
been  acted,  and  has  given  an  opportunity  in  several  of  its  parts 
for  as  just  and  good  action  as  ever  I  saw  on  the  stage. 

The  reader  will  consider  that  I  speak  here,  not  as  the  author, 
but  as  the  patentee.  Which  is,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  I  am 
not  diffuse  in  the  praises  of  the  play,  lest  I  should  seem  like  a 
man  who  cries  up  his  own  wares  only  to  draw  in  customers. 

Richard  Steele 


PKOLOaUE. 

In  this  grave  age,  when  comedies  are  few, 
"We  crave  your  patronage  for  one  that's  new ; 
Though  'twere  poor  stuff,  yet  bid  the  author  fair, 
And  let  the  scarceness  recommend  the  ware. 
Long  have  your  ears  been  fill'd  with  tragic  parts, 
Blood  and  blank- verse  have  harden'd  all  your  hearts  j 
If  e'er  you  smile,  'tis  at  some  party  strokes. 
Round-heads  and  wooden-shoes  are  standing  jokes  : 
The  same  conceit  gives  claps  and  hisses  birth, 
You're  grown  such  politicians  in  your  mirth  ! 
For  once  we  try  (though  'tis,  I  own,  unsafe,) 
To  please  you  all,  and  make  both  parties  laugh. 

Our  author,  anxious  for  his  fame  to-night. 
And  bashful  in  his  first  attempt  to  write. 
Lies  cautiously  obscure  and  unreveal'd, 
Like  ancient  actors  in  a  mask  conceal'd.  / 

Censure  when  no  man  knows  who  writes  the  play, 
Were  much  good  malice  merely  thrown  away. 
The  mighty  critics  will  not  blast,  for  shame, 
A  raw  young  thing,  who  dares  not  tell  his  name : 
Good-natur'd  judges  will  th'  unknown  defend. 
And  fear  to  blame,  lest  they  shou'd  hurt  a  friend : 
Each  wit  may  praise  it,  for  his  own  dear  sake. 
And  hint  he  writ  it,  if  the  thing  shou'd  take. 


288  DRAMAS. 

But  if  you're  rough,  and  use  him  lik^  a  dog, 
Depend  upon  it — he'll  remain  incog. 
If  you  shou'd  hiss,  he  swears  he'll  hiss  as  high, 
And,  like  a  culprit,  join  the  hue-and-cry. 
If  cruel  men  are  still  averse  to  spare 
These  scenes,  they  fly  for  refuge  to  the  fair. 
Though  with  a  ghost  our  comedy  be  heighten'd, 
Ladies,  upon  my  word,  you  shan't  be  frighten'd  j 
0,  'tis  a  ghost  that  scorns  to  be  uncivil, 
A  well-spread,  lusty,  jointure-hunting  devil ; 
An  am'rous  ghost,  that's  faithful,  fond,  and  true, 
•   Made  up  of  flesh  and  blood — as  much  as  you, 
Then  every  evening  come  in  flocks,  undaunted. 
We  never  think  this  house  is  too  much  haunted. 


THE    DRUMMER 


,OL.    l.~13 


DEAMATIS   PEKSON^ 


Sir  George  Truman, Mr.  "Wilks. 

Tinsel, Mr.  Gibber. 

Fantome,  the  Drummer,          ....  Mr.  Mills. 

Vellum,  Sir  George  Truman's  Steward,     .  ,     Mr.  Johnson. 

Butler, Mr.  Pinkethman. 

Coachman,  Mr.  Miller. 

Gardener,  Mr.  Norris. 

Lady  Truman,     ......  Mrs.  Oldfield. 

Abigal, Mrs.  SAUXDiats. 


LihraTy. 


THE    DRUMMER. 

ACT  I. 
SCENE    I  . 

A  great  Sail. 
Enter  the  Butler,  Coachman,  and  Gardener. 

Butler.  There  came  another  coach  to  town  last  night,  that 
brought  a  gentleman  to  inquire  about  this  strange  noise  we  hear 
in  the  bouse.  This  spirit  will  bring  a  power  of  custom  to  the 
George — If  so  be  he  continues  his  pranks,  I  design  to  sell  a 
pot  of  ale,  and  set  up  the  sign  of  the  Drum. 

Coachman.  I'll  give  Madam  warning,  that's  flat — I've 
always  lived  in  sober  families.  I'll  not  disparage  myself  to  be  a 
•servant  in  a  house  that  is  haunted. 

Gardener.  I'll  e'en  marry  Nell,  and  rent  a  bit  of  ground 
of  my  own,  if  both  of  you  leave  Madam,  not  but  that  Madam's 
a  very  good  woman — if  Mrs.  Abigal  did  not  spoil  her — come, 
'•  ere'«  her  health. 

Butler.  It's  a  very  hard  thing  to  be  a  butler  in  a  house 
that  is  disturbed.  He  made  such  a  racket  in  the  cellar  last 
night,  that  I'm  afraid  he'll  sour  all  the  beer  in  my  barrels. 

Coachman.  Why  then,  John,  we  ought  to  take  it  off  as  fast 
as  wo  can.  Here's  to  you — He  rattled  so  loud  under  the  tiles 
last  night,  that  I  verily  thought  the  house  would  have  fallen  over 
our  heads.  I  durst  not  go  up  into  the  cock-loft  this  merning,  if 
I  had  not  got  one  of  the  maids  to  go  along  with  me. 


292  DRAMAS. 

Gardener.  I  thought  I  heard  him  in  one  of  my  bed-posta 
— I  marvel,  John,  how  he  gets  into  the  house  when  all  the  gates 
are  shut. 

Butler.  Why,  look  ye,  Peter,  your  spirit  will  creep  you 
into  an  augre-hole  : — he'll  whi&k  ye  through  a  key-hole,  without 
so  much  as  justling  against  one  of  the  wards. 

Coachman.  Poor  Madam  is  mainly  frighted,  that's  certain, 
and  verily  believes  'tis  my  master  that  was  kill'd  in  the  ]ast 
campaign. 

Butler.  Out  of  all  manner  of  question,  Robin,  'tis  Sir 
George.  Mrs.  Abigal  is  of  opinion  it  can  be  none  but  his  hon- 
our; he  always  loved  the  wars,  and  you  know  was  mightily 
pleased  from  a  child  with  the  music  of  a  drum. 

Gardener.  I  wonder  his  body  was  never  found  after  the 
battle. 

Butler.  Found !  why,  ye  fool,  is  not  his  body  here  about 
the  house  ?  Dost  thou  think  he  can  beat  his  drum  without  hands 
and  arms  ? 

Coachman.  'Tis  master  as  sure  as  I  stand  here  alive,  and  I 
verily  believe  I  saw  him  last  night  in  the  town-close. 

Gardener.     Ay  !  how  did  he  appear  ? 

Coachman.     Like  a  white  horse. 

Butler.  Pho,  Robin,  I  tell  ye  he  has  never  appear'd  yet 
but  in  the  shape  of  the  sound  of  a  drum. 

Coachman.  This  makes  one  almost  afraid  of  one's  own 
shadow.  As  I  was  walking  from  the  stable  t'other  night  without 
my  lanthorn,  I  fell  across  a  beam,  that  lay  in  my  way,  and  faith 
my  heart  was  in  my  mouth — I  thought  I  had  stumbled  over  a 
spirit. 

Butler.  Thou  might'st  as  well  have  stumbled  over  a  straw  ; 
why,  a  spirit  is  such  a  little  thing,  that  I  have  heard  a  man,  who 
was  a  great  scholar,  say,  that  he'll  dance  ye  a  Lancashire  horn- 


THE      DRUMMER.  '  293 

pipe  upon  the  point  of  a  needle- — As  I  sat  in  the  pantry  last 
night  counting  my  spoons,  the  candle  methought  burnt  blue,  and 
the  spay'd  bitch  look'd  as  if  she  saw  something. 

Coachman.     Ay,  poor  cur,  she's  almost  frighten'd  out  of  her 
wits. 

Gardener.     Ay,  I  warrant  ye,  she  hears  him  many  a  time, 
and  often  when  we  don't. 

Butler.     My  lady  must  have  him  laid,  that's  certain,  what- 
ever it  cost  her. 

G-ARDENER.     I  faucy  when  one  goes  to  market,  one  might 
hear  of  somebody  that  can  make  a  spell. 

Coachman.     Why  may  not  our  parson  of  the  parish  lay  him? 

Butler.     No,  no,  no,  our  parson  cannot  lay  him. 

Coachman.     Why  not  he  as  well  as  another  man  ? 

Butler.     Why,  ye  fool,  he   is  not   qualified — He  has  not 
taken  the  oaths.  ^ 

Gardener.  Why,  d'ye  think,  John,  that  the  spirit  would  take 
the  law  of  him  ? — Faith,  I  could  tell  you  one  way  to  drive  him  off. 

Coachman.     How's  that  ? 

Gardener.  I'll  tell  you  immediately  (drinks) — I  fancy 
Mrs.  Abigal  might  scold  him  out  of  the  house. 

Coachman.  Ay,  she  has  a  tongue  that  would  drown  his 
drum,  if  any  thing  could. 

Butler.  Pugh,  this  is  all  froth  !  you  understand  nothing  of 
the  matter — The  next  time  it  makes  a  noise,  I  tell  you  what 
ought  to  be  done, — I  would  have  the  stewafd  speak  Latin  to  it. 

Coachman.  Ay,  that  would  do,  if  the  steward  had  but 
courage. 

Gardener.  There  you  have  it — He's  a  fearful  man.  If 
I  had  as  much  learning  as  he,  and  I  met  the  ghost,  I'd  tell  him 

*Test  oaths  for  detecting  Catholics  and  Dissenters. — G. 


294  DRAMAS. 

his  own  !  but,  alack,  what  can  one  of  us  poor  men  (vO  with  a  spirit, 
that  can  neither  write  nor  read  ? 

Butler.  Thou  art  always  cracking  and  boasting,  Peter, 
thou  dost  not  know  what  mischief  it  might  do  thee,  if  such  a  silly 
dog  as  thee  should  offer  to  speak  to  it.  For  ought  I  know,  he 
might  flay  thee  alive,  and  make  parchment  of  thy  skin  to  cover  his 
drum  with. 

Gardener.  A  fiddlestick!  tell  not  me — I  fear  nothing, 
not  I*!     I  never  did  harm  in  my  life,  I  never  committed  murder. 

Butler.  I  verily  believe  thee,  keep  thy  temper,  Peter; 
after  supper  we'll  drink  each  of  us  a  double  mug,  and  then  let 
come  what  will. 

Gardener.  Why,  that's  well  said,  John,  an  honest  man  that 
is  not  quite  sober,  has  nothing  to  fear — Here's  to  ye — ^why,  how 
if  he  should  come  this  minute,  here  would  I  stand.  Ha  !  what 
noise  is  that  ? 

Butler  and  Coachman.     Ha !  where  ?  ' 

Gardener.  The  devil !  the  devil !  Oh,  no ;  'tis  Mrs. 
Abigal. 

Butler.  Ay,  faith  !  'tis  she ;  'tis  Mrs.  Abigal !  a  good  mis- 
take !  'tis  Mrs.  Abigal. 

Enter  Abigal. 

Abigal.  Here  are  your  drunken  sots  for  you!  Is  this  a 
time  to  be  guzzling,  when  gentry  are  come  to  the  house  1  Why 
don't  you  lay  your  cloth  ?  How  come  you  out  of  the  stables  ? 
Why  are  you  not  at  work  in  your  garden  ? 

Gardener.  Why,  yonder's  the  fine  Londoner  and  Madam 
fetching  a  walk  together,  and  methought  they  look'd  as  if  they 
should  say  they  had  rather  have  my  room  than  my  company. 

Butler.     And  so,  foorsooth,  being  all  three  met  together, 


THE      DRUMMER.  295 

we  are  doing  our  endeavours  to  drink  this  same  drummer  out  of 
our  heads. 

GrARDENER.  Foi*  jou  must  know  Mrs.  Abigal,  we  are  all  of 
opinion  that  one  can't  be  a  match  for  him,  unless  one  be  as  drunk 
as  a  drum. 

Coachman.  I  am  resolved  to  give  Madam  warning  to  hire 
herself  another  coachman ;  for  I  came  to  serve  my  master,  d'ye 
see,  while'  he  was  alive,  but  do  suppose  that  he  has  no  further 
occasion  for  a  coach,  now  he  walks. 

Butler.  Truly,  Mrs.  Abigal,  I  must  needs  say,  that  this 
same  spirit  is  a  very  odd  sort  of  a  body,  after  all,  to  fright  Madam 
and  his  old  servants  at  this  rate. 

Gardener.  And  truly,  Mrs.  Abigal,  I  must  needs  say,  I 
serv'd  my  master  contentedly,  while  he  was  living ;  but  I  will 
serve  no  man  living  (that  is,  no  man  that  is  not  living)  without 
double  wages. 

Abigal.  Ay,  'tis  such  cowards  as  you  that  go  about  with 
idle  stories,  to  disgrace  the  house,  and  bring  so  many  strangers 
about  it ;  you  first  frighten  yourselves,  and  then  your  neighbours. 

GrARDENER.  FHghtcn'd !  I  scorn  your  words.  Frighten'd, 
quoth-a ! 

Abigal.     "What,  you  sot !  are  you  grown  pot-valiant  ? 

Gardener.  Frighten'd  with  a  drum !  that's  a  good  one  !  it 
will  do  us  no  harm,  I'll  answer  for  it.  It  will  bring  no  blood- 
shed along  with  it,  take  my  word.  It  sounds  as  like  a  train-band 
drum  as  ever  I  heard  in  my  life. 

Butler.     Prithee,  Peter,  don't  be- so  presumptuous. 

Abigal.     "Well,  these  drunken  rogues  take  it  as  I  could  wish. 

[Aside. 

Gardener  I  scorn  to  be  frighteii'd,  now  I  am  in  for't ;  if 
old  Dub-a-dub  should  come  into  the  room,  I  would  take  him-  - 

Butler.     Prithee  hold  thy  tongue. 


296  DRAMAS. 

Gardener.     I  would  take  him — 
[77^6  drum  beats^  the  Gardener  endeavours  to  get  off^  cmd  falls 

Butler  and  Coachman.     Speak  to  it,  Mrs.  Abigal. 

Gardener.     Spare  my  life,  and  take  all  I  have. 

Coachman.  Make  off,  make  off,  good  butler,  and  let  us  go 
hide  ourselves  in  the  cellar. 

[  They  all  run  off. 

Abigal  sola. 

Abigal.  So  now  the  coast  is  clear,  I  may  venture  to  call  out 
my  drummer. — But  first  let  me  shut  the  door,  lest  we  be  sur- 
prised. Mr.  Fantome,  Mr.  Fantome !  (He  beats. )  Nay,  nay, 
pray  come  out,  the  enemy's  fled — I  must  speak  with  you  imme- 
diately— don't  stay  to  beat  a  parley. 

[  The  back  scene  opens,  and  discovers  Fantome  with  a  drum. 

Fantome.  Dear  Mrs.  Nabby,  I  have  overheard  all  that  has 
been  said,  and  find  thou  hast  managed  this  thing  so  well,  that  I 
could  take  thee  in  my  arms,  and  kiss  thee — if  my  drum  did  not 
stand  in  my  way. 

Abigal.  "Well,  o'  my  conscience,  you  are  the  merriest  ghost ! 
and  the  very  picture  of  Sir  George  Truman. 

Fantome.  There  you  flatter  me,  Mrs.  Abigal;  Sir  George 
had  that  freshness  in  his  looks,  that  we  men  of  the  town  cannot 
come  up  to. 

Abigal.  Oh !  death  may  have  alter'd  you,  you  know — 
besides,  you  must  consider,  you  lost  a  great  deal  of  blood  in  the 
battle. 

Fantome.  Ay,  that's  right,  let  me  look  never  so  pale,  this 
cut  across  my  forehead  will  keep  me  in  countenance. 

Abigal.  'Tis  just  such  a  one  as  my  master  receiv'd  from  a 
cursed  French  trooper,  as  my  lady's  letter  inform'd  her. 

Fantome.     It  happens  luckily  that  this  suit  of  clothes  of  Sir 


THE      DRUMMER.  297 

George's  fits  me  so  well, — I  think  I  can't  fail  hitting  the  air  of  a 
man  with  whom  I  was  so  long  acquainted. 

Abigal.  You  are  the  very  man — I  vow  I  almost  start  when 
I  look  upon  you. 

Fantome.  But  what  good  will  this  do  me,  if  I  must  remain 
invisible  ? 

x\bigal.  Pray  what  good  did  your  being  visible  do  you? 
The  fair  Mr.  Fantome  thought  no  woman  could  withstand  him — 
But  when  you  were  seen  by  my  lady  in  your  proper  person,  after 
she  had  taken  a  full  survey  of  you,  and  heard  all  the  pretty 
things  you  could  say,  she  very  civilly  dismiss 'd  you  for  the  sake 
of  this  empty,  noisy  creature  Tinsel.  She  fancies  you  have  been 
gone  from  hence  this  fortnight. 

Fantome.  Why,  really  I  love  thy  lady  so  well,  that  though 
I  had  no  hopes  of  gaining  her  for  myself,  I  could  not  bear  to  see 
her  given  to  another,  especially  such  a  wretch  as  Tinsel. 

Abigal.  Well,  tell  me  truly,  Mr.  Fantome,  have  not  you  a 
great  opinion  of  my  fidelity  to  my  dear  lady,  that  I  would  not 
suffer  her  to  be  deluded  in  this  manner,  for  less  than  a  thousand 
pound  ? 

Fantome.  Thou  art  always  reminding  me  of  my  promise — 
thou  shalt  have  it,  if  thou  canst  bring  our  project  to  bear ;  do'st 
not  know  that  stories  of  ghosts  and  apparitions  generally  end  in  a 
pot  of  money  ? 

Abigal.  Why,  truly  now,  Mr.  Fantome,  I  should  think  myself 
a  very  bad  woman,  if  I  had  done  what  I  do  for  a  farthing  less. 

Fantome.     Dear  Abigal,  how  I  admire  thy  virtue  ! 

Abigal  No,  no,  Mr.  Fantome,  I  defy  the  worst  of  my  ene- 
mies to  say  I  love  mischief  for  mischief  sake. 

Fantome.  But  is  thy  lady  persuaded  that  I  am  the  ghost  of 
her  deceased  husband  ? 

Abigal.     I  endeavour  to  make  her  belieye  so,  aod  tejl  ber 


298  DRAMAS. 

/ 

every  time  your  drum  rattles,  that  her  husband  is  chiding  her  for 
entertaining  this  new  lover. 

Fantome.  Prithee  make  use  of  all  thy  a  *^^,  for  I  am  tired  o 
death  with  strolling  round  this  wide  old  hour-o,  like  a  rat  behind 
a  wainscot. 

Abigal.  Did  not  I  tell  you,  'twas  the  purest  place  in  the 
world  for  you  to  play  your  tricks  in  ?  there's  none  of  the  family 
that  knows  every  hole  and  corner  in  it  besides  myself. 

Fantome.  Ah !  Mrs.  Abigal !  you  have  had  your  in- 
trigues.— 

Abigal.  .  For  you  must  know,  when  I  was  a  romping  young 
girl,  I  was  a  mighty  lover  of  hide  and  seek. 

Fantome.  I  believe,  by  this  time,  I  am  as  well  acquainted 
with  the  house  as  yourself. 

Abigal.  You  are  very  much  mistaken,  Mr.  Fantome ;  but 
no  matter  for  that ;  here  is  to  be  your  station  to-night.  This  is 
the  place  unknown  to  any  one  living  besides  myself,  since  the 
death  of  the  joiner;  who,  you  must  understand,  being  a  lover  of 
mine,  contrived  the  wainscot  to  move  to  and  fro,  in  the  manner 
that  you  find  it.  I  designed  it  for  a  wardrobe  for  my  lady's  cast 
clothes.  Oh  !  the  stomachers,  stays,  petticoats,  commodes,  lac'd 
shoes,  and  good  things,  that  I  have  had  in  it ! — Pray  take  care 
you  don't  break  the  cherry-brandy  bottle  that  stands  up  in  the 
corner. 

Fantome,  Well,  Mrs.  Abigal,  I  hire  your  closet  of  you  but 
for  this  one  night — a  thousand  pound  you  know  is  a  very  good  rent. 

Abigal.  Well,  get  you  gone :  you  have  such  a  way  with 
you,  there's  no  denying  you  any  thing  ! 

Fantome.  I'm  a  thinking  how  Tinsel  will  stare  when  he  sees 
me  come  out  of  the  wall :  for  I  am  resolved  to  make  my  appear- 
ance to-night. 

Abigal.     Get  you  in,  get  you  in,  my  lady's  at  the  door. 


THE     DRUMMER.  299 

Fantome.  Pray  take  care  she  does  not  keep  me  up  so  late 
as  she  did  last  night,  or  depend  upon  it  I'll  beat  the  tattoo.  • 

Abigal.  I'm  undone,  I'm  undone — {As  he  is  going  in.) 
Mr.  Fantome,  Mr.  Fantome,  you  have  put  the  thousand  pound 
bond  into  my  brother's  hands. 

Fantome.     Thou  shalt  have  it,  I  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  have  it. 

[^Fantome  goes  in.^ 

Abigal.     No  more  words — Vanish,  vanish. 

Ente7'  Lady. 

Abigal  (opening  the  door).  Oh,  dear  madam,  was  it  you 
that,  made  such  a  knocking  ?  my  heart  does  so  beat — I  vow  you 
have  frightened  me  to  death — I  thought  verily  it  had  been  the 
drummer. 

Lady.  I  have  been  showing  the  garden  to  Mr.  Tinsel ;  he's 
most  insufferably  witty  upon  us  about  this  story  of  the  drum. 

Abigal.  Indeed,  madam,  he's  a  very  loose  man  !  I'm  afraid 
'tis  he  that  hinders  my  poor  master  from  resting  in  his  grave. 

Lady.  Well !  an  infdel  is  such  a  novelty  in  the  country, 
that  I  am  resolv'd  to  divert  myself  a  day  or  two  at  least  with  the 
oddness  of  his  conversation. 

Abigal.  Ah,  madam !  the  drum  begun  to  beat  in  the  house 
as  soon  as  ever  this  creature  was  admitted  to  visit  you.  All 
the  while  Mr.  Fantome  made  his  addresses  to  you,  there  was  not 
a  mouse  stirring  in  the  family  more  than  us'd  to  be — 

Lady.  This  baggage  has  some  design  upon  me,  more  than  I 
can  yet  discover.  (Aside.) — Mr.  Fantome  was  always  thy 
favourite. 

Abigal.  Ay,  and  should  have  been  your's  too,  by  my  con- 
sent !  Mr.  Fantome  was  not  such  a  slight  fantastic  thing  as  this 
is. — Mr.  Fantome  was  the   best  built  man  one  should  see  in  a 


300  DRAMAS. 

summer's  day!  Mr.  Fantome  was  a  man  of  honour,  and  lov'd 
you !  Poor  soul !  how  has  he  sigh'd  when  he  has  talk'd  to  me  of 
my  hard-hearted  lady. — Well !  I  had  as  lief  as  a  thousand  pounds 
you  would  marry  Mr.  Fantome  ! 

Lady.  To  tell  thee  truly,  I  lov'd  him  well  enough  till  I 
found  he  lov'd  me  so  much.  But  Mr.  Tinsel  makes  his  court  to 
me  with  so  much  neglect  and  indifference,  and  with  such  an 
agreeable  sauciness — Not  that  I  say  I'll  marry  him. 

Abigal.  Marry  him,  quoth-a !  no,  if  you  should,  you'll  be 
awaken'd  sooner  than  married  couples  generally  are — You'll 
quickly  have  a  drum  at  your  window. 

Lady.  I'll  hide  my  contempt  of  Tinsel  for  once,  if  it  be  but 
to  see  what  this  wench  drives  at.  [Aside. 

Abigal.  Why,  suppose  your  husband,  after  this  fair  warning 
he  has  given  you,  should  sound  you  an  alarm  at  midnight ;  then 
open  your  curtains  with  a  face  as  pale  as  my  apron,  and  cry  out 
with  a  hollow  voice,  '  What  dost  thou  do  in  bed  with  this  spindle- 
shank'd  fellow  ?  ' 

Lady.  Why  wilt  thou  needs  have  it  to  be  my  husband?  he 
never  had  any  reason  to  be  offended  at  me.  I  always  lov'd  him 
while  he  was  living,  and  should  prefer  him  to  any  man,  were  he 
so  still.  Mr.  Tinsel  is  indeed  very  idle  in  his  talk,  but  I  fancy, 
Abigal,  a  discreet  woman  might  reform  him. 

Abigal.     That's  a  likely  matter  indeed ;  did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  woman  who  had  power  over  a  man,  when  she  was  his  wife, 
that  had  none  while  she  was  his  mistress  ?     Oh !  there's  noth- 
ing in  the  world  improves  a  man  in  his  complaisance  like  mar-» 
riage ! 

Lady.  He  is,  indeed,  at  present,  too  familiar  in  his  conver- 
sation. 

Abigal.     Familiar  !  madam,  in  troth,  he's  down-right  rude. 

Lady.     But  that,  you  know,  Abigal,  shows  he  has  no  dis- 


THE      DRUMMER.  30J 

fiimulation  in  him — Then  he  is  apt  to  jest  a  little  too  much  upon 
grave  subjects. 

Abigal.     Grave  subjects  !  he  jests  upon  the  church. 

Lady.  But  that  you  know,  Abigal,  may  be  only  to  shew  his 
wit — Then  it  must  be  owned  he  is  extremely  talkative. 

Abigal.  Talkative,  d'ye  call  it!  he's  down-right  imperti- 
nent. 

Lady.'  But  that,  you  know,  Abigal,  is  a  sign  he  has  been 
us'd  to  good  company — Then,  indeed,  he  is  very  positive. 

Abigal.  Positive  !  Why,  he  contradicts  you  in  every  thing 
you  say. 

Lady.  But  then  you  know,  Abigal,  he  has  been  educated  at 
the  inns  of  court. 

Abigal.  A  blessed  education  indeed  !  it  has  made  him  for- 
get his  catechism ! 

Lady.     You  talk  as  if  you  hated  him, 

Abigal.     You  talk  as  if  you  lov'd  him. 

Lady.     Hold  your  tongue !  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Tinsel. 

Tinsel.     My  dear  widow ! 

Abigal.     My  dear  widow !  marry  come  up !  [Aside. 

Lady.  Let  him  alone,  Abigal,  so  long  as  he  does  not  call 
me  my  dear  wife,  there's  no  harm  done. 

Tinsel.  I  have  been  most  ridiculously  diverted  since  I  left 
you — Your  servants  have  made  a  convert  of  my  booby.  His 
head  is  so  filled  with  this  foolish  story  of  a  drummer,  that  I  expect 
the  rogue  will  be  afraid  hereafter  to  go  upon  a  message  by  moon- 
light. 

Lady.  Ah,  Mr.  Tinsel,  what  a  loss  of  billet-doux  would  that 
be  to  many  a  fine  lady ! 


302 


DRAMAS. 


Abigal.  Then  you  still  believe  this  to  be  a  foolish  story  ?  I 
thought  my  lady  had  told  you,  that  she  had  heard  it  herself. 

Tinsel.     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Abigal.  Why,  you  would  not  persuade  us  out  of  our 
senses  ? 

Tinsel.     Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Abigal.     There's  manners  for  you,  madam.  [Aside. 

Lady.  Admirably  rally'd  1  that  laugh  is  unanswerable  1  Now 
I'll  be  hang'd  if  you  could  >forbear  being  witty  upon  me,  if  I 
should  tell  you  I  heard  it  no  longer  ago  than  last  night. 

Tinsel.     Fancy. 

Lady.     But  what  if  I  should  tell  you  my  maid  was  with  me  I 

Tinsel.  Vapours  !  vapours  !  Pray,  my  dear  widow,  will  you 
answer  me  one  question  ? — Had  you  ever  this  noise  of  a  drum  in 
your  head,  all  the  while  your  husband  was  living  ? 

Lady.  And  pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  will  you  let  me  ask  you  ano- 
ther question  ?  Do  you  think  we  can  hear  in  the  country,  as  well 
as  you  do  in  town  ? 

Tinsel.  Believe  me,  madam,  I  could  prescribe  you  a  cure 
for  these  imaginations. 

Abigal.  .Don't  tell  my  lady  of  imaginations,  sir,  I  have 
heard  it  myself. 

Tinsel.     Hark  thee,  child — art  thou  not  an  old  maid  ? 

Abigal.     Sir,  if  I  am,  it  is  my  own  fault. 

Tinsel.     Whims  !  freaks  !  megrims  !  indeed,  Mrs.  ^bigal. 

Abigal.  Marry,  sir,  by  your  talk  one  would  believe  you 
thought  every  thing  that  was  good  is  a  megrim. 

Lady.  Why,  truly,  I  don't  very  well  understand  what  you 
meant  by  your  doctrine  to  me  iu  the  garden  just  now,  that  every 
thing  we  saw  was  made  by  chance. 

Abigal.  A  very  pretty  subject,  indeed,  for  a  lover  to  divert 
his  mistress  with. 


THE     DRUMMER.  303 

Lady.  But  I  suppose  that  was  only  a  taste  of  the  conversa- 
tion you  would  entertain  me  with  after  marriage. 

Tinsel.  Oh,  I  shall  then  have  time  to  read  you  such  lec- 
tures of  motions,  atoms,  and  nature — that  you  shall  learn  to  think 
as  freely  as  the  best  of  us,  and  be  convinced  in  less  than  a  month, 
that  all  about  us  is  chance-work. 

Lady.  You  are  a  very  complaisant  person  indeed ;  and  so 
you  would  make  your  court  to  me,  by  persuading  me  that  I  was 
made  by  chance ! 

Tinsel.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  well  said,  my  dear  !  why,  faith,  thou 
wert  a  very  lucky  hit,  that's  certain ! 

Lady.  Pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  where  did  you  learn  this  odd  way 
of  talking  ? 

Tinsel.  Ah,  widow,  'tis  your  country  innocence  makes  you 
think  it  an  odd  way  of  talking. 

Lady.  Though  you  give  no  credit  to  stories  of  apparitions, 
I  hope  you  believe  there  are  such  things  as  spirits  ! 

Tinsel.     Simplicity ! 

Abigal.  I  fancy  you  don't  believe  women  have  souls,  d'ye 
sb? 

Tinsel.     Foolish  enough  ! 

Lady.  I  vow,  Mr.  Tinsel,  I'm  afraid  malicious  people  will 
say  I'm  in  love  with  an  atheist. 

Tinsel.  Oh,  my  dear,  that's  an  old-fashion'd  word — I'm  a 
Freethinker,  child. 

Abigal.     I'm  sure  you  are  a  free  speaker ! 

Lady.  Really,  Mr.  Tinsel,  considering  that  you  are  so  fine  a 
gentleman,  I'm  amaz'd  where  you  got  all  this  learning !  I  won- 
der it  has  not  spoil'd  your  breeding. 

Tinsel.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  not  time  to  ook  into 
these  dry  matters  myself,  but  I  am  convinced  by  four  or  five 
learned  men^  whom  I  sometimes  overhear  at  a  coffee-house  I  fre- 


304  DRAMAS. 

quent,  that  our  forefathers  were  a  pack  of  asses,  that  the  world 
has  been  in  an  error  for  some  thousands  of  years,  and  that  all  the 
people  upon  earth,  excepting  those  two  or  three  worthy  gentlemen, 
are  impos'd  upon,  cheated,  bubbled,  abus'd,  bamboozled — 

Abigal.  Madam,  how  can  you  hear  such  a  profligate  ?  he  talks 
like  the  London  prodigal. 

Lady.  Why,  really,  I'm  a  thinking,  if  there  be  no  such  things 
as  spirits,  a  woman  has  no  occasion  for  marrying — She  need  not 
be^>afraid  to  lie  by  herself. 

Tinsel.  Ah  !  my  dear  !  are  husbands  good  for  nothing  but  to 
frighten  away  spirits  ?  Dost  thou  think  I  could  not  instruct  thee 
in  several  other  comforts  of  matrimony  ? 

Lady.  Ah !  but  you  are  a  man  of  so  much  knowledge,  that 
you  would  always  be  laughing  at  my  ignorance — You  learned  men 
are  so  apt  to  despise  one  ! 

Tinsel.  No,  child!  I'd  teach  thee  my  principles,  thou 
should'st  be  as  wise  as  I  am — in  a  week's  time. 

Lady.  Do  you  think  your  principles  would  make  a  woman  the 
better  wife  ? 

Tinsel.     Prithee,  widow,  don't  be  queer. 

Lady.  I  love  a  gay  temper,  but  I  would  not  have  you  rally 
things  that  are  serious. 

Tinsel.  Well  enough,  faith  !  where's  the  jest  of  rallying  any 
thing  else  ? 

Abigal.  Ah,  madam,  did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Fantome  talk  at 
this  rate?  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  But  where's  this  ghost  ?  this  son  of  a  whore  of  a 
drummer  ?     I'd  fain  hear  him,  methinks. 

Abigal.  Pray,  madam,  don't  suffer  him  to  give  the  ghost 
euch  ill  language,  especially  when  you  have  reason  to  believe  it  is 
my  master. 

Tinsel.     That's  well  enough,  faith.  Nab;    dost  thou  think 


THE      DRUMMER  305 

thy  master  is  so  unreasonable  as  to  continue  his  claim  to  his  re- 
lict after  his  bones  are  laid  ?  Pray,  widow,  remember  the  words 
of  your  contract,  you  have  fulfill'd  them  to  a  tittle — Did  not  you 
marry  Sir  George  to  the  tune  of,  '  till  death  us  do  part  ? ' 

Lady.  I  must  not  hear  Sir  Greorge's  memory  treated  in  so 
slight  a  manner — This  fellow  must  have  been  at  some  nains  to 
make  himself  such  a  finish'd  coxcomb.  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  Give  me  but  possession  of  your  person,  and  I'll 
whirl  you  up  to  town  for  a  winter,  and  cure  you  at  once.  Oh ! 
I  have  known  many  a  country  lady  come  to  London  with  fright- 
ful stories  of  the  hall-house  being  haunted,  of  fairies,  spirits,  and 
witches ;  that  by  the  time  she  had  seen  a  comedy,  play'd  at  an 
assembly,  and  ambled  in  a  ball  or  two,  has  been  so  little  afraid 
of  bugbears,  that  she  has  ventur'd  home  in  a  chair  at  all  hours 
of  the  night. 

Abigal.     Hum — sauce-box.  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  'Tis  the^  solitude  of  the  country  that  creates  these 
whimsies ;  there  was  never  such  a  thing  as  a  ghost  heard  of  at 
London,  except  in  the  playhouse — Oh,  we'd  pass  all  our  time  in 
London.  'Tis  the  scene  of  pleasure  and  diversions,  where  there's 
something  to  amuse  you  every  hour  of  the  day.  Life's  not  life 
in  the  country. 

Lady.  "Well  then,  you  have  an  opportunity  of  showing  the 
sincerity  of  that  love  to  me  which  you  profess.  You  may  give 
a  proof  that  you  have  an  affection  to  my  person,  not  my  jointure. 

Tinsel.  Your  jointure  !  how  can  you  think  me  such  a  dog ! 
But,  child,  won't  your  jointure  be  the  same  thing  in  London  as 
in  the  country  ? 

Lady.  No,  you're  deceived  !  You  must  know  that  it  is  set- 
tled on  me  by  marriage-articles,  on  condition  that  I  live  in  this 
old  mansion-house,  and  keep  it  up  in  repair. 

Tinsel.     How  ! 


306  DRAMAS. 

Abigal.     That's  well  put,  madam. 

Tinsel.  Why,  faith,  I  have  been  looking  upon  this  house, 
and  think  it  is  the  prettiest  habitation  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 

Lady.     Ay,  but  then  this  cruel  drum ! 

Tinsel.     Something  so  venerable  in  it ! 

Lady.     Ay,  but  the  drum ! 

Tinsel.  For  my  part,  I  like  this  Grothic  way  of  building 
better  than  any  of  your  new  orders — it  would  be  a  thousand  pities 
it  should  fall  to  ruin. 

Lady.     Ay,  but  the  drum  ! 

Tinsel.  How  pleasantly  we  two  could  pass  our  time  in  this 
delicious  situation.  Our  lives  would  be  a  continued  dream  of 
happiness.  Come,  faith,  widow,  let's  go  upon  the  leads,  and  take 
a  view  of  the  country. 

Lady.     Ay,  but  the  drum  !  the  drum  ! 

Tinsel.  My  dear,  take  my  word  for't  'tis  all  fancy :  besides, 
should  he  drum  in  thy  very  bed-chamber,  I  should  only  hug  thee 
the  closer. 

Clasp'd  in  the  folds  of  love,  I'd  meet  my  doom, 
And  act  my  joys,  tho'  thunder  shook  the  room. 


ACT  n. 

SCENE    I. 

Scene  opens,  and  discovers  Vellum  in  his  Office,  and  a  Letter  in  his 

Hand. 

Vellum.     This  letter  astonisheth;    may  I  believe  my  own 
eyes — or  rather  my  spectacles — *  To   Humphry  Vellum,  Esq., 
Steward  to  tlie  Lady  Truman.' 
*  Velltjm, 

'  T  doubt  r.ot  but  you  will  be  glad  to  liear  your  master  is 


p.  THE      DRUMMER.  307 

alive,  and  designs  to  be  with  you  in  half  an  hour.  The  report  of 
my  being  slain~  in  the  Netherlands,  has,  I  find,  produced  some 
disorders  in  my  family.  I  am  now  at  the  George  Inn.  If  an  old 
man  with  a  grey  beard,  in  a  black  cloak,  inquires  after  you,  givo 
him  admittance,  he  passes  for  a  conjurer,  but  is,  really, 

'  Your  faithful  friend, 
I  '  a.  Truman.' 

i  *  P.  S.  Let  this  be  a  secret,  and  you  shall  find  your  account 

in  it.' 

This  amazeth  me !  and  yet  the  reasons  why  I  should  believe  he 
is  still  living,  f»,re  manifold — First,  because  this  has  often  been 
the  case  of  other  military  adventurers. 

Secondly,  because  the  news  of  his  death  was  first  published  in 
Dyer's  Letter. 

Thirdly,  because  this  letter  can  be  written  by  none  but  him- 
self— I  know  his  hand,  and  manner  of  spelling. 

Fourthly — 

Enter  Butler. 

Butler.  Sir,  here's  a  strange  old  gentleman  that  asks  for 
you ;  he  says  he's  a  conjurer,  but  he  looks  very  suspicious ;  I  wish 
he  ben't  a  Jesuit. 

Yellum.     Admit  him  immediately. 

Butler.     I  wish  he  ben't  a  Jesuit ;  but  he  says  he's  nothing 
but  a  conjurer. 
\         Vellum.     He  says  right — He  is  no  more  than  a  conjurer 
Bring  him  in  and  withdraw.  \^Exit  Butler. 

And,  Fourthly,  As  I  was  saying,  because — 

[ 

Enter  Butler  with  Sir  George. 
i  Butler.     Sir,  here    is  the  conjurer — what  a  devilish   long 


308  DRAMAS 

beard  he  has  !  I  warrant  it  has  been  growing  these  hundred 
years,  [Aside.     Exit. 

Sir  George.  Dear  Vellum,  you  have  reeeiv'd  my  letter :  but 
before  we  proceed  lock  the  door. 

Vellum.     It  is  his  voice.  [Skuts  tJie  door. 

Sir  George.  In  the  next  place  help  me  oflF  with  this  cum- 
bersome cloak. 

Vellum.     It  is  his  shape. 

Sir  George.     So,  now  lay  my  beard  upon  the  table. 

Vellum  (After  having  looked  on  Sir  George  through  his 
spectacles).     It  is  his  face,  every  lineament ! 

Sir  George.  Well,  now  I  have  put  off  the  conjurer  and  the 
old  man,  I  can  talk  to  thee  more  at  my  ease. 

Vellum.  Believe  me,  my  good  master,  I  am  as  much  rejoiced 
to  see  you  alive,  as  I  was  upon  the  day  you  were  born.  Your 
name  was,  in  all  the  news-papers,  in  the  list  of  those  that  were 
slain. 

Sir  George.  We  have  not  time  to  be  particular.  I  shall 
only  tell  thee  in  general,  that  I  was  taken  prisoner  in  the  battle, 
and  was  under  close  confinement  for  several  months.  Upon  my 
release,  I  was  resolved  to  surprise  my  wife  with  the  news  of  my 
being  alive.  I  know.  Vellum,  you  are  a  person  of  so  much  pene- 
tration, that  I  need  not  use  any  further  arguments  to  convince 
you  that  I  am  so. 

Vellum.  I  am — and,  moreover,  I  question  not  but  your 
good  lady  will  likewise  be  convinced  of  it.  Her  ho-nour  is  a  dis- 
cerning lady. 

Sir  George.  I'm  only  afraid  she  should  be  convinced  of  it 
to  her  sorrow.  Is  not  she  pleas'd  with  her  imaginary  widow- 
hood ?  Tell  me  truly,  was  she  afflicted  at  the  report  of  my 
death  ? 

Vellum.     Sorely. 


THE      DRUMMER  309 

Sir  George.     How  long  did  her  grief  last  ? 

Vellum.  Longer  than  I  have  known  any  widow's — at  least 
three  days. 

Sir  GrEORGE.  Three  days,  say'st  thou  ?  three  whole  days  ? 
I'm  afraid  thou  flatterest  me  ! — 0  woman  !   woman  ! 

Vellum.     Grief  is  twofold. 

Sir  George.  This  blockhead  is  as  methodical  as  ever — but  I 
know  he's  honest.  [Aside. 

Vellum.  There  is  a  real  grief,  and  there  is  a  methodical 
grief;  she  was  drowned  in  tears  till  such  a  time  as  the  tailor  had 
made  her  widow's  weeds — Indeed  they  became  her. 

Sir  George.  Became  her !  and  was  that  her  comfort  ? 
Truly,  a  most  seasonable  consolation  ! 

Vellum.  But,  I  must  needs  say,  she  paid  a  due  regard  to 
your  memory,  and  could  not  forbear  weeping  when  she  saw  com- 
pany. 

Sir  George.  That  was  kind  indeed  !  I  find  she  griev'd  with 
a  great  deal  of  good  breeding.  But  how  comes  this  gang  of  lovers 
about  her  ? 

Vellum.     Her  jointure  is  considerable. 

Sir  George.     How  this  fool  torments  me  !  [Aside. 

Vellum.     Her  person  is  amiable — 

Sir  George.     Death  !  [Aside. 

Vellum.  But  her  character  is  unblemished.  She  has  been 
as  virtuous  in  your  absence  as  a  Penelope — 

Sir  George.     And  has  had  as  many  suitors. 

Vellum.     Several  have  made  their  overtures. 

Sir  George.     Several ! 

Vellum.     But  she  has  rejected  all. 

Sir  George.  There  thou  reviv'st  me — but  what  means  this 
Tinsel  ?     Are  his  visits  acceptable  ? 

Vellui«.     He  is  young. 


310  DRAMAS. 

Sir  GrEORGE.     Does  she  listen  to  him  ? 

Yellum.     He  is  gay. 

Sir  George.  Sure  she  could  never  entertain  a  thought  of 
marrying  such  a  coxcomb  ! 

Vellum.     He  is  not  ill  made. 

Sir  George.  Are  the  vows  and  protestations  that  pass'd  be- 
tween us  come  to  this  !  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it !  Is  Tin- 
sel the  man  design'd  for  my  worthy  successor  ? 

Vellum.  You  do  not  consider  that  you  have  been  dead 
these  fourteen  months — 

Sir  George.     "Was  there  ever  such  a  dog  ?  [Aside. 

Vei^um.  And  I  have  often  heard  her  say,  that  she  must 
never  expect  to  find  a  second  Sir  George  Truman — meaning  your 
ho-nour. 

Sir  George.  I  think  she  lov'd  me ;  but  I  must  search  into 
this  story  of  the  Drummer  before  I  discover  myself  to  her.  I 
have  put  on  this  habit  of  a  conjurer,  in  order  to  introduce  my- 
self. It  must  be  your  business  to  recommend  me,  as  a  most  pro- 
found person,  that  by  my  great  knowledge  in  the  curious  arts, 
can  silence  the  Drummer,  and  dispossess  the  house. 

Vellum.  I  am  going  to  lay  my  accounts  before  my  lady, 
and  I  will  endeavour  to  prevail  upon  her  ho-nour  to  admit  the 
trial  of  your  art. 

Sir  George.  I  have  scarce  heard  of  any  of  these  stories  that 
did  not  arise  from  a  love  intrigue — Amours  raise  as  many  ghosts 
as  murders. 

Vellum.  Mrs.  Abigal  endeavours  to  persuade  us,  that  'tis 
your  ho-nour  who  troubles  the  house. 

Sir  George.  That  convinces  me  'tis  a  cheat,  for,  I  think, 
Vellum,  I  may  be  pretty  well  assured  it  is  not  me. 

VisLLUM.     I  am  apt  to  think  so,  truly.     Ha — ha — ha  I 

Sir  George.     Abigal  had  always  an  ascendant  over  her  lady, 


THE      DRUMMER.  311 

and  if  there  is  a  trick  in  this  matter,  depend  upon  it  she  is  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  I'll  b(»hang'd  if  this  ghost  be  not  one  of  Abigal's 
familiars. 

Vellum.     Mrs.  Abigal  has  of  late  been  very  mysterious. 

Sir  George.  I  fancy,  Vellum,  thou  could'st  worm  it  out  of 
her.     I  know  formerly  there  was  an  amour  between  you. 

Vellum.  Mrs.  Abigal  hath  her  allurements,  and  she  knows 
I  have  pick'd  up  a  competency  in  your  ho-nour's   service. 

Sir  George.  If  thou  hast,  all  I  ask  of  thee  in  return  is, 
that  thou  would'st  immediately  renew  thy  addresses  to  her. 
Coax  her  up.  Thou  hast  such  a  silver  tongue.  Vellum,  as  'twill 
be  impossible  for  her  to  withstand.  Besides,  she  is  so  very  a 
woman,  that  she'll  like  thee  the  better  for  giving  her  the  pleasure 
of  telling  a  secret.  In  short,  wheedle  her  out  of  it,  and  I  shall 
act  by  the  advice  which  thou  givest  me. 

Vellum.  Mrs.  Abigal  was  never  deaf  to  me,  when  I  talked 
upon  that  subject.  I  will  take  an  opportunity  of  addressing  my- 
self to  her  in  the  most  pathetic  manner. 

Sir  George.  In  the  mean  time  lock  me  up  in  your  office, 
and  bring  me  word  what  success  you  have — Well,  sure  I  am  the 
first  that  ever  was  employ'd  to  lay  himself. 

Vellum.  You  act,  indeed,  a  threefold  part  in  this  house ; 
you  are  a  ghost,  a  conjurer,  and  my  ho-noured  master,  Sir  George 
Truman ;  he,  he,  he !     You  will  pardon  me  for  being  jocular. 

Sir  George.  0,  Mr.  Vellum,  with  all  my  heart.  You 
know  I  love  you  men  of  wit  and  humour.  Be  as  merry  as  thou 
pleasest,  so  thou  dost  thy  business  (Mimicking  him.)  You 
will  remember,  Vellum,  your  commission  is  twofold,  first,  to  gain 
admission  for  me  to  your  lady,  and,  secondly,  to  get  the  secret 
out  of  Abigal. 

Vellum.     It  sufficeth.  •  [  The  scene  shuts 


312  DRAMAS. 


Enter  Lady,  sola. 


Lady.  Women,  wlio  have  been  happy  in  a  first  marriage,  arc 
the  most  apt  to  venture  upon  a  second.  But  for  my  part,  I  had 
a  husband  so  every  way  suited  to  my  inclinations,  that  I  must 
entirely  forget  him  before  I  can  like  another  man.  I  have  now 
been  a  widow  but  fourteen  months,  and  have  had  twice  as  many 
lovers,  all  of  them  profess'd  admirers  of  my  person,  but  passion- 
ately in  love  with  my  jointure.  I  think  it  is  a  revenge  I  owe  my 
sex  to  make  an  example  of  this  worthless  tribe  of  fellows,  who 
grow  impudent,  dress  themselves  fine,  and  fancy  we  are  obliged 
to  provide  for  'em.  But  of  all  my  captives,  Mr.  Tinsel  is  the 
most  extraordinary  in  his  kind.  I  hope  the  diversion  I  give  my- 
self with  him  is  unblamable.  I'm  sure  'tis  necessary  to  turn  my 
thoughts  off  from  the  memory  of  that  dear  man,  who  has  been  the 
greatest  happiness  and  affliction  of  my  life.  My  heart  would  be 
a  prey  to  melancholy,  if  I  did  not  find  these  innocent  methods  of 
relieving  it.  But  here  comes  Abigal.  I  must  teaze  the  baggage, 
for  I  find  she  has  taken  it  into  her  head  that  I  am  entirely  at  her 
disposal. 

Enter  Abigal. 

Abigal.  Madam !  Madam !  yonder's  Mr.  Tinsel  has  as 
good  as  taken  possession  of  your  house.  Marry,  he  says,  he  must 
have  Sir  George's  apartment  enlarg'd ;  for  truly,  says  he,  I  hate 
to  be  straiten'd.  Nay,  he  was  so  impudent  as  to  shew  me  the 
chamber  where  he  intended  to  consummate  as  he  calls  it. 

Lady.     Well !  he's  a  wild  fellow. 

Abigal.     Indeed  he's  a  very  sad  man,  madam. 

Lady.  He's  young,  Abigal,  'tis  a  thousand  pities  he  should 
be  lost ;  I  should  be  mighty  glad  to  reform  him. 

Abigal.     Reform  hjm !  marry  hang  him  ! 


THE     DRUMMER.  313 

Lady.     Has  not  he  a  great  deal  of  life  ? 

Abigal      Ay,  enougli  to  make  your  heart  ache. 

Lady.  I  dare  say  thou  think'st  him  a  very  agreeable  fel- 
low. 

Abigal.     He  thinks  himself  so,  I'll  answer  for  him. 

Lady.     He's  very  good  natur'd  ! 

Abigal.     He  ought  to  be  so,  for  he's  very  silly. 
.    Lady.     Dost  thou  think  he  loves  me  ? 

Abigal     Mr.  Fantome  did,  I  am  sure. 
'    Lady.     With  what  raptures  he  talk'd  ! 

Abigal.     Yes,  but  'twas  in  praise  of  your  jointure-house. 

Lady.     He  has  kept  bad  company. 

Abigal.  They  must  be  very  bad  indeed,  if  they  were  worse 
than  himself. 

Lady.  I  have  a  strong  fancy  a  good  woman  might  reform 
him. 

Abigal.  It  would  be  a  fine  experiment,  if  it  should  not  suc- 
ceed. 

Lady.  Well,  Abigal,  we'll  talk  of  that  another  time ;  here 
comes  the  steward,  I  have  no  further  occasion  for  you  at  present. 

[Exit  Abigal. 

Enter  Yellum. 

Vellum.  Madam,  is  your  ho-nour  at  leisure  to  look  into  the 
accounts  of  the  last  week  ?  They  rise  very  high — House-keeping 
is  chargeable  in  a  house  that  is  haunted. 

Lady.  How  comes  that  to  pass  ?  I  hope  the  drum  neither 
eats  nor  drinks?     But  read  your  account.  Vellum. 

Vellum.  {Putting  on  and  off  his  spectacles  in  this  scene.) 
A  hogshead  and  a  ha,lf  of  ale — it  is  not  for  the  ghost's  drinking — 
but  your  ho-nour's  servants  say  they  must  have  something  to 
keep  up  their  courage  against  this  strange  noise.     They  tell  me 

VOL.   I. — 14 


314  DRAMAS. 

they  expect  a  double  quantity  of  malt  in  their  smaU  beer  so  long 
as  the  house  continues  in  this  condition. 

Lady.  At  this  rate  they'll  take  care  to  be  frighten 'd  all  the 
year  round,  I'll  answer  for  'em.     But  go  on. 

Yellum.  Item^  two  sheep,  and  a — where  is  the  ox  ? — Oh  ! 
here  I  have  him — and  an  ox — Your  ho-nour  must  always  have  a 
piece  of  cold  beef  in  the  house  for  the  entertainment  of  so  many 
strangers,  who  come  from  all  parts  to  hear  this  drum.  Item, 
bread,  ten  peck  loaves — They  cannot  eat  beef  without  bread. — 
Item,  three  barrels  of  table  beer — They  must  have  drink  with 
their  meat. 

Lady.  Sure  no  woman  in  England  has  a  steward  that  makes 
such  ingenious  comments  on  his  works.  \^Aside. 

Yellum.  Item,  to  Mr.  Tinsel's  servants,  five  bottles  of  port 
wine — It  was  by  your  ho-nour's  order — Item,  three  bottles  of 
sack  for  the  use  of  Mrs.  Abigal. 

Lady.     I  suppose  that  was  by  your  own  order. 

YellUxM.  "We  have  been  long  friends,  we  are  your  ho-nour's 
ancient  servants,  sack  is  an  innocent  cordial,  and  gives  her  spirit 
to  chide  the  servants  when  they  are  tardy  in  their  bus'ness  I  he, 
he,  he  !  pardon  me  for  being  jocular. 

Lady.     Well,  I  see  you'll  come  together  at  last. 

Vellum.  Item,  a  dozen  pound  of  watch-lights  for  the  use  of 
the  servants. 

Lady.  For  the  use  of  the  servants  !  What,  are  the  rogues 
afraid  of  sleeping  in  the  dark  ?  What  an  unfortunate  woman  am 
I !  This  is  such  a  particular  distress,  it  puts  me  to  my  wit's  end. 
Yellum,  what  wou'd  you  advise  me  to  do  ? 

Yellum.  Madam,  your  ho-nour  has  two  points  to  consider 
Imprimis,  To  retrench  these  extravagant  expences,  which  so 
many  strangers  bring  upon  you. — Secondly,  To  clear  the  house 
of  this  invisible  drummer. 


THE      DRUMMER.  315 

Lady.  This  learned  division  leaves  me  just  as  wise  as  I  was. 
But  how  must  we  bring  these  two  points  to  bear  ? 

Vellum.     I  beseech  your  ho-nour  to  give  me  the  hearing. 

Lady.  I  do.  But,  prithee,  take  pity  on  me,  and  be  not 
tedious. 

Vellum.  I  will  be  concise.  There  is  a  certain  person  ar- 
rived this  morning,  an  aged  man,  of  a  venerable  aspect,  and  of  a 
long  hoary  I  card,  that  reacheth  down  to  his  girdle.  The  com- 
mon people  call  him  a  wizard,  a  white  witch,  a  conjurer,  a  cunning 
man,  a  necrcmancer,  a — 

Lady.     No  matter  for  his  titles.     But  what  of  all  this  ? 

Vellum.  Give  me  the  hearing,  good  my  lady.  He  pretends 
to  great  skill  in  the  occult  sciences,  and  is  come  hither  upon  the 
rumour  of  this  Drum.  If  one  may  believe  him,  he  knows  the 
secret  of  laying  ghosts,  or  of  quieting  houses  that  are  haunted. 

Lady.  Pho,  these  are  idle  stories  to  amuse  the  country  peo- 
ple ;  this  can  do  us  no  good. 

Vellum.     It  can  do  us  no  harm,  my  lady. 

Lady.  I  dare  say  thou  dost  not  believe  there  is  any  thing  In 
it  thyself. 

Vellum.  I  cannot  say  I  do ;  there  is  no  danger,  however,  in 
the  experiment.  Let  him  try  his  skill ;  if  it  should  succeed,  we 
are  rid  of  the  drum ;  if  it  should  not,  we  may  tell  the  world  that 
it  has,  and  by  that  means  at  least  get  out  of  this  expensive  way 
of  living  ;  so  that  it  must  turn  to  your  advantage  one  way  or  an 
other. 

Lady.  I  think  you  argue  very  rightly.  But  where  is  the 
man  ?     I  would  fain  see  him.     He  must  be  a  curiosity. 

Vellum.  I  have  already  discours'd  him,  and  he  is  to  be  with 
me,  in  my  office,  half  an  hour  hence.  He  asks  nothing  for  his 
pains,  till  he  has  done  his  work ; — no  cure,  no  money. 

Lady.     That  circumstance,  I  must  confess,  wou'd  make  one 


316  DRAMAS. 

believe  there  is  more  in  his  art  than  one  wou'd  imagine.     Pray, 
Vellum,  go  and  fetch  him  hither  immediately. 

Vellum.     I  am  gone.     He  shall  be  forth-coming  forthwith. 

lEzeunt. 

Enter  Butler,  Coachman,  and  Gardener. 

Butler.     Bare  news,  my  lads,  rare  news  I 

Gardener.  What's  the  matter  ?  hast  thou  got  any  more 
rales  for  us  ? 

Butler.     No,  'tis  better  than  that. 

Coachman.     Is  there  another  stranger  come  to  the  house  ? 

Butler.     Ay,  such  a  stranger  as  will  make  all  our  lives  easy. 

Gardener.     What !  is  he  a  lord  ? 

Butler.     A  lord  I  No,  nothing  like  it. — He's  a  conjurer. 

Coachman.  A  conjurer !  what,  is  he  come  a  wooing  to  my 
lady? 

Butler.  No,  no,  you  fool,  he's  come  a  purpose  to  lay  the 
spirit. 

Coachman.  Ay,  marry,  that's  good  news  indeed ;  but  where 
is  he? 

Butler.  He's  lock'd  up  with  the  steward  in  his  oJBice,  they 
are  laying  their  heads  together  very  close.  I  fancy  they  are  cast- 
ing a  figure. 

Gardener.  Prithee  John,  what  sort  of  a  creature  is  a  con- 
iurer. 

Butler.  Why  he's  made  much  as  other  men  are,  if  it  was 
not  for  his  long  grey  beard. 

Coachman.  Look  ye  Peter,  it  stands  with  reason,  that  a 
conjurer  shou'd  have  a  long  grey  beard — for  did  ye  ever  know  a 
witch  that  was  not  an  old  woman  ? 

Gardener.  Why !  I  remember  a  conjurer  once  at  a  fair, 
that  to  my  thinking   was  a  very  smock-fac'd  man,  and   yet  he 


THE      DRUMMER.  317 

Bpew'd  out  fifty  yards  of  green  ferret.  I  fancy,  John,  if  thou'det 
get  him  into  the  pantry  and  give  him  a  cup  of  ale,  he'd  shew  us  a 
few  tricks.  Do'st  think  we  cou'd  not  persuade  him  to  swallow 
one  of  thy  case-knives  for  his  diversion  ?  He'll  certainly  bring  it 
up  again. 

Butler.  Peter,  thou  art  such  a  wiseacre  !  Thou  do'st  not 
know  the  difference  between  a  conjurer  and  a  juggler.  This  man 
must  be  a  very  great  master  of  his  trade.  His  beard  is  at  least 
half  a  yard  long,  he's  dress'd  in  a  strange  dark  cloak,  as  black  as 
a  coal.     Your  conjurer  always  goes  in  mourning. 

Gardener.     Is  he  a  gentleman  ?  had  he  a  sword  by  his  side  ? 

Butler.  No,  no,  he's  too  grave  a  man  for  that,  a  conjurer  is 
as  grave  as  a  judge, — but  he  had  a  long  white  wand  in  his  hand. 

CpACHMAN.  You  may  be  sure  there's  a  good  deal  of  virtue 
in  that  wand — I  fancy  'tis  made  out  of  witch-elm. 

Gardener.  I  warrant  you  if  the  ghost  appears,  he'll  whisk 
ye  that  wand  before  his  eyes,  and  strike  you  the  drumstick  out 
of  his  hand. 

Butler.  No  ;  the  wand,  look  ye,  is  to  make  a  circle,  and  if 
""le  once  gets  the  ghost  in  a  circle,  then  he  has  him — ^let  him  get 
out  again  if  he  can.  A  circle,  you  must  know,  is  a  conjurer's 
trap. 

Coachman.  But  what  will  he  do  with  him,  when  he  has  him 
there  ? 

Butler.     Why  then  he'll  overpower  him  with  his  learning. 

Gardener.  If  he  can  once  compass  him,  and  get  him  in 
lobs-pound,  he'll  make  nothing  of  him,  but  speak  a  few  hard 
words  to  him,  and  perhaps  bind  him  over  to  hLs  good  behaviour 
for  a  thousand  years. 

Coachman.  Ay,  ay,  he'll  send  him  packing  to  his  grave  with 
a  flea  in  his  ear,  I  warrant  him. 

Butler.     No,  no,  I  wou'd  advise  madam  to  spare  no  cost.  If 


318  DRAMAS. 

tlie  conjurer  be  but  well  paid,  he'll  take  pains  upon  the  ghost,  and 
lay  him,  look  ye,  in  the  Red  Sea — and  then  he's  laid  for  ever. 

Coachman.     Ay,  marry,  that  wou'd  spoil  his  drum  for  him. 

GrARDENER.  Why,  Johu,  there  must  be  a  power  of  spirits  in 
that  same  Red  Sea — I  warrant  ye  they  are  as  plenty  as  fish. 

Coachman.  Well,  I  wish  after  all  that  he  may  not  be  too 
hard  for  the  conjurer ;  I'm  afraid  he'll  find  a  tough  bit  of  work 
on't. 

Gardener.  I  wish  the  spirit  may  not  carry  a  corner  of  the 
house  off  with  him. 

Butler.  As  for  that,  Peter,  you  may  be  sure  that  the 
steward  has  made  his  bargain  with  the  cunning  man  before-hand, 
that  he  shall  stand  to  all  costs  and  damages — But  hark !  yonder's 
Mrs.  Abigal,  we  shall  have  her  with  us  immediately,  if  we  do  not 
get  off. 

Gardener.  Ay,  lads  i  if  we  could  get  Mrs.  Abigal  well  laid, 
too — we  should  lead  merry  lives. 

For  to  a  man  like  me  that's  stout  and  bold, 
A  ghost  is  not  so  dreadful  as  a  scold. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE    I. 

Scene  opem^  and  discovers  Sir  Geokge  in  Vellum's  Office. 

Sir  George.  I  wonder  I  don't  hear  of  Vellum  yet.  But  I 
know  his  wisdom  will  do  nothing  rashly.  The  follow  has  been  so 
us'd  to  form  in  business,  that  it  has  infected  his  whole  conversa- 
tion.    But  I  must  not  find  fault  with  that  punctual  and  exact 


THE      DRUMMER.  319 

behaviour  which  has  been  of  so  much  use  to  me ;  my  estate  is  the 
better  for  it.  Enter  Vellum. 

Well  Vellum,  I  m  impatient  to  hear  your  success. 

Vellum.     First,  let  me  lock  the  door. 

Sir  GrEORGE.     Will  your  lady  admit  me  ? 

Vellum.  If  this  lock  is  not  mended  soon,  it  will  be  quite 
spoiled. 

Sir  George.  Prithee  let  the  lock  alone  at  present,  and  an- 
swer me. 

Vellum.  Delays  in  business  are  dangerous — I  must  send 
for  the  smith  next  week — and  in  the  mean  time  will  take  a 
minute  of  it. 

Sir  George.     What  says  your  lady  ? 

Vellum.  This  pen  is  naught,  and  wants  mending — My  lady, 
did  you  say  ? 

Sir  George.     Does  she  admit  me  ? 

Vellum.     I  have  gain'd  admission  for  you  as  a  conjurer. 

Sir  G«eorge.  That's  enough !  I'll  gain  admission  for  my- 
self as  a  husband.  Does  she  believe  there  is  any  thing  in  my 
art? 

Vellum.     It  is  hard  to  know  what  a  woman  believes. 

Sir  George.     Did  she  ask  no  questions  about  me  ? 

Vellum.  Sundry — She  desires  to  talk  with  you  herself,  be- 
fore you  enter  upon  your  business. 

Sir  George.     But  when  ? 

Vellum.     Immediately.     This  instant. 

Sir  George.  Pugh.  What  hast  thou  been  doing  all  this 
while !  Why  didst  not  tell  me  so  ?  Give  me  my  cloak — have 
you  yet  met  with  Abigal  ? 

Vellum.  I  have  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  talking  with 
her.     But  we  have  interchanged  FOine  languishing  glances. 

Sir  George.     Let  thee  alone  for  that,  Vellum,  I  have  for- 


320  DRAMAS. 

merly  seen  thee  ogle  her  througli  tliy  spectacles.  Well !  This 
is  a  most  venerable  cloak.  After  the  buslues^  of  this  day  is  over, 
I'll  make  thee  a  present  of  it.     'Twill  become  thee  mightily. 

Vellum.  He,  he,  he  !  wou'd  you  make  a  conjurer  of  yo.  -- 
steward  ? 

Sir  George.  Prithee  don't  be  jocular,  I'm  in  haste.  Help 
me  on  with  my  beard. 

Vellum.  And  what  will  your  ho-nour  do  with  your  cast 
beard  ? 

Sir  George.  "Why,  faith,  thy  gravity  v^-ants  only  such  a 
beard  to  it ;  if  thou  would'st  wear  it  with  the  eloak,  thou  would'st 
make  a  most  complete  heathen  philosopher.  But  where's  my 
wand  ? 

Vellum.  A  fine  taper  stick  !  It  is  well  chosen.  I  will  keep 
this  till  you  are  sheriff  of  the  county.  It  is  cot  my  custom  to  let 
any  thing  be  lost. 

Sir  George.  Come,  Vellum,  lead  the  way.  You  must  in- 
troduce me  to  your  lady.  Thou'rt  the  fittest  fellow  iii  the  world 
to  be  a  master  of  the  ceremonies  to  a  conjurer. 

[Exewit. 

Enter  Abigal  crossing  the  stage,  Tinsbl  following. 

Te^isel.     Nabby,  Nabby,  whither  so  fast  ? 

Abigal.  Keep  your  hands  to  yourself.  I'm  going  to  cal) 
the  steward  to  my  lady. 

Tinsel.  What  ?  Goodman  Two-fold  ?  I  met  him  walking 
with  a  strange  old  fellow  yonder.  I  suppose  he  belongs  to  the 
family  too.  He  looks  very  antique.  He  must  be  some  of  the 
furniture  of  this  old  mansion-house. 

Abigal  What  does  the  man  mean  ?  Don't  think  to  palm 
mo,  as  you  do  my  laiy. 


THE      DRUMMER.  321 

Tinsel.  Prithee,  Nabby,  tell  me  one  tbing ;  wbat's  tbe  rea- 
son thou  art  my  enemy  ? 

Abigal.     Marry,  because  I'm  a  friend  to  my  lady. 

Tinsel.  Dost  thou  see  any  thing  about  me  thou  dost  not 
like  ?     Come  here,  hussy,  give  me  a  kiss :  don't  be  ill-natur'd. 

Abigal.  Sir,  I  know  how  to  be  civil.  (  Kisses  her.) — This 
rogue  will  carry  off  my  lady,  if  I  don't  take  care.  [^Aside. 

Tinsel.  Thy  lips  are  as  soft  as  velvet,  Abigal.  I  must  get 
thee  a  husband. 

Abigal.     Ajt,  now  you  don't  speak  idly,  I  can  talk  to  you. 

Tinsel.  I  have  one  in  my  eye  for  thee.  Dost  thou  love  a 
young  lusty  son  of  a  whore  ? 

Abigal.     Laud,  how  you  talk  I 

Tinsel.     This  is  a  thundering  dog. 

Abigal.     What  is  he  ? 

Tinsel.     A  private  gentleman. 

Abigal.     Ay !  where  does  he  live  ? 

Tinsel.  In  the  Horse-Guards — But  he  has  one  fault  I  must 
tell  thee  of.  If  thou  canst  bear  with  that,  he's  a  man  for  thy 
purpose. 

Abigal.     Pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  what  may  that  be  ? 

Tinsel.     He's  but  five  and  twenty  years  old. 

Abigal.     'Tis  no  matter  for  his  age,  if  he  has  been  well  edu-  . 


cated. 

Tinsel.     No  man  better,  child ;  he'll  tye  a  wig,  toss  a  dye,  \ 


make  a  pass,  and  swear  with  such  a  grace  as  would  make  thy  heaxtj 
leap  to  hear  him.  ^ 

Abigal.     Half  these  accomplishments  will  do,  provided  ho 
has  an  estate. — Pray  what  has  he  ? 

Tinsel.     Not  a  farthing. 

Abigal.     Pox  on  him,  what  do  I  give  him  the  hearing  for  1 

[Aside, 

VOL.   I. — 14* 


322  DRAMAS. 

Tinsel.     But  as  for  that  I  wou'd  make  it  up  to  liim. 

Abigal      How  ? 

Tinsel.  Why  look  ye,  child,  as  soon  as  I  have  married  thj 
lady,  I  design  to  discard  this  old  prig  of  a  steward,  and  to  put 
this  honest  gentleman,  I  am  speaking  of,  into  his  place. 

Abigal.  (Aside.)  This  fellow's  a  fool — I'll  have  no  more  to 
say  to  him. — Hark  !  my  lady's  a  coming ! 

Tinsel.     Depend  upon  it.  Nab,  I'll  remember  my  promise. 

Abigal.     Ay,  and  so  will  I  too — to  your  cost.  [Aside, 

[Exit  Abigal. 

Tinsel.  My  dear  is  purely  fitted  up  with  a  maid. — But  I 
shall  rid  the  house  of  her. 

Enter  Lady. 

Lady.  Oh,  Mr.  Tinsel,  I  am  glad  to  meet  you  here.  I  am 
going  to  give  you  an  entertainment,  that  won't  be  disagreeable  to 
a  man  of  wit  and  pleasure  of  the  town. — There  may  be  something 
diverting  in  a  conversation  between  a  conjuror,  and  this  conceited 
ass.  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  She  loves  me  to  distraction,  I  see  that.  (Aside.) — 
Prithee,  widow,  explain  thyself 

Lady.  You  must  know  here  is  a  strange  sort  of  man  come 
to  town  who  undertakes  to  free  the  house  from  this  disturbance. 
The  steward  believes  him  a  conjurei*. 

Tinsel.     Ay ;  thy  steward  is  a  deep  one  ! 

Lady.  He's  to  be  here  immediately.  It  is  indeed  an  odd 
figure  of  a  man. 

Tinsel.  Oh  !  I  warrant  he  has  studied  the  black  art !  Ha, 
ha,  ha !  Is  he  not  an  Oxford  scholar  ? — Widow,  thy  house  is  the 
most  f  xtraordinarily  inhabited  of  any  widow's  this  day  in  Chris- 


t  t    '  THEDRUMMER.  323 


V 


tendom — I  thiuk  thy  four  chief  domestics  are — a  wither'd  Abigal 
a  STiperannuated  steward — a  ghost — and  a  conjurer. 

Lady  {mimicking  Tinsel).  And  you  wou'd  have  it  inhabited 
by  a  fifth,  who  is  a  more  extraordinary  person  than  any  of  all 
these  four. 

Tinsel.  It's  a  sure  sign  a  woman  loves  you,  when  she  imi- 
tates your  manner.  (Aside.) — Thou'rt  very  smart,  my  dear.  But 
see !  smoke  the  doctor. 

Enter  Vellum  and  Sir  George  in  his  conjurer'' s  habit. 

Vellum.  I  will  introduce  this  profound  person  to  your  lady- 
ship, and  then  leave  him  with  you — Sir,  this  is  her  ho-nour. 

Sir  George.     I  know  it  well.  [Exit  Vellum. 

^  (Aside,  walking  in  a  musing  posture.)  That  dear  woman  ! 
The  sight  of  her  unmans  me.  I  cou'd  weep  for  tenderness,  did 
not  I  at  the  same  time,  feel  an  indignation  rise  in  me,  to  see  that 
wretch  with  her :  and  yet  I  cannot  but  smile  to  see  her  in  the 
company  of  her  first  and  second  husband  at  the  same  time. 

Lady.  Mr.  Tinsel,  do  you  speak  to  him;  you  are  us'd  to 
the  company  of  men  of  learning. 

Tinsel.  Old  gentleman,  thou  dost  not  look  like  an  inhabit- 
ant of  this  world ;  I  suppose  thou  art  lately  come  down  from  the 
stars.     Pray  what  news  is  stirring  in  the  Zodiac  ? 

Sir  George.  News  that  ought  to  make  the  heart  of  a  coward 
tremble.  Mars  is  now  entering  into  the  first  house,  and  will 
shortly  appear  in  all  his  domal  dignities — 

Tinsel.     Mars  ?  Prithee,  Father  Grey-beard,  explain  thyself. 

Sir  George.  The  entrance  of  Mars  into  his  house,  portends 
the  entrance  of  a  master  into  this  family — and  that  soon. 

Tinsel.  D'ye  hear  that,  widow  ?  The  stars  have  cut  me  out 
for  'by  husband.     This  house  is  to  have  a  master,  and  that  soon 


324  DRAMA  i. 

— Hark  thee  old  Gadbury,  is  not  Mars  very  like  a  young  felloTf 
call'd  Tom  Tinsel  ? 

Sir  George.     Not  so  mucli  as  Venus  is  like  this  lady. 

Tinsel.  A  word  in  your  ear,  Doctor ;  these  two  planets  will 
be  in  conjunction  by  and  by ;  I  can  tell  you  that. 

Sir  G  eorge  (aside^  walking  disturbed).  Curse  on  this  imper- 
tinent fop  !  I  shall  scarce  forbear  discovering  myself — Madam, 
I  am  told  that  your  house  is  visited  with  strange  noises. 

Lady.  And  I  am  told  that  you  can  quiet  them.  I  must  con- 
fess I  had  a  curiosity  to  see  the  person  I  had  heard  so  much  of; 
and,  indeed,  your  aspect  shows  that  you  ha ,  e  had  much  experi- 
ence in  the  world.     You  must  be  a  very  aged  man. 

Sir  George.  My  aspect  deceives  you;  T.-iat  do  you  iuiak  i 
-my  real  age  ? 

Tinsel.  I  shou'd  guess  thee  within  thrc  years  of  Methuse- 
lah.    Prithee,  tell  me,  was't  not  thou  born  btiore  the  flood  ? 

Lady.  Truly  I  shou'd  guess  you  to  b  in  your  second  or 
third  century.  I  warrant  you,  you  have  great  grand-children  with 
beards  of  a  foot  long. 

Sir  George.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  If  there  be  truth  in  man,  I  was 
but  five  and  thirty  last  August.  0  !  the  study  of  the  occult  sci- 
ences makes  a  man's  beard  grow  faster  than  you  would  imagine. 

Lady.  What  an  escape  you  have  had,  Mr.  Tinsel,  that  you 
were  not  bred  a  scholar  ! 

Tinsel.  And  so  I  fancy,  Doctor,  thou  think'st  me  an  illite- 
rate fellow,  because  I  have  a  smooth  chin  ? 

Sir  George.  Hark  ye,  sir,  a  word  in  your  ear.  You  are  a 
coxcomb  by  all  the  rules  of  physiognomy :  but  let  that  be  a  se- 
cret between  you  and  me.  [Aside  to  Tinsel 

Lady.     Pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  what  i^    t  the  doctor  whispers  ? 

Tinsel.  Only  a  compliment,  child,  upon  two  or  three  of  uij 
features.     It  does  not  become  me  to  repeat  it. 


THE     DRUMMER.  325 

Lady.  Pray,  Doctor,  examine  this  gentleman's  face,  and  tell 
me  his  fortune. 

Sir  George.  If  I  may  believe  tlie  lines  of  his  face,  he  likes 
it  better  than  I  do,  or — than  you  do,  fair  lady. 

Tinsel.     Widow,  I  hope  now  thou'rt  convinc'd  he's  a  cheat. 

Lady.     For  my  part  I  believe  he's  a  witch — ^go  on  Doctor. 

Sir  GrEORGE.     He  will  be  cross'd  in  love ;  and  that  soon. 

Tinsel.  Prithee,  Doctor,  tell  us  uhe  truth.  Dost  not  thou 
live  in  Moorfields  ?  ^ 

Sir  George.  Take  my  word  for  it,  thou  shalt  never  live  in 
my  lady  Truman's  mansion-house. 

Tinsel.  Pray,  old  gentleman,  hast  thou  never  been  pluck'd 
by  the  beard  when  thou  wert  saucy  ? 

Lady.  Nay,  Mr.  Tinsel,  you  are  angry!  do  you  think  I 
wou'd  marry  a  man  that  dares  not  have  his  fortune  told  ? 

Sir  George.  Let  him  be  angry — I  matter  not — he  is  but 
short-liv'd.     He  will  soon  die  of — 

Tinsel.  Come,  come,  speak  out,  old  Hocus,  he,  he,  he  !  this 
fellow  makes  me  burst  with  laughing.  [Forces  a  laugh. 

Sir  George.  He  will  soon  die  of  a  fright — or  of  the — let  me 
see  your  nose — Ay — 'tis  so  ! 

Tinsel.  You  son  of  a  whore !  I'll  run  ye  through  the  body. 
I  never  yet  made  the  sun  shine  through  a  conjurer — 

Lady.     Oh,  fy,  Mr.  Tinsel !  you  will  not  kill  an  old  man  ? 

Tinsel.     An  old  man  !  the  dog  says  he's  but  five  and  thirty. 

Lady.  Oh,  fy,  Mr.  Tinsel !  I  did  not  think  you  could  have 
been  so  passionate ;  I  hate  a  passionate  man.  Put  up  your  sword, 
or  I  must  never  see  you  again. 

Tinsel.     Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  was  but  in  jest,  my  dear.     I  had  a 

1  Art  thou  of  Betlilem's  noble  college  free, 
Stark,  staring  mad.  Detdes. 

Bedlam  had  been  removed  a  few  years  before  to  Moorfields.     See  also 
the  letter  from  the  gentleman  in  Moorfields,  in  the  Spectator. — G. 


326  DRAMAS. 

mind  to  have  made  an  experiment  upon  the  doctor's  body.  I 
would  but  have  drill'd  a  little  eyelet-hole  in  it,  and  have  seen 
whether  he  had  art  enough  to  close  it  up  again. 

Sir  George.  Courage  is  but  ill  shown  before  a  lady.  But 
know,  if  ever  I  meet  thee  again,  thou  shalt  find  this  arm  can  wield 
other  weapons  besides  this  wand. 

Tinsel.     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Lady.  Well,  learned  sir,  you  are  to  give  a  proof  of  your  art, 
not  of  your  courage.  Or  if  you  will  shew  your  courage,  let  it 
be  at  nine  o'clock — for  that  is  the  time  the  noise  is  generally 
heard. 

Tinsel.  And  look  ye,  old  gentleman,  if  thou  dost  not  do  thy 
business  well,  1  can  tell  thee  by  the  little  skill  I  have,  that  thou 
wilt  be  toss'd  in  a  blanket  before  ten.  We'll  do  our  endeavour 
to  send  thee  back  to  the  stars  again. 

Sir  George.  I'll  go  and  prepare  myself  for  the  ceremonies 
— And,  lady,  as  you  expect  they  shou'd  succeed  to  your  wishes, 
treat  that  fellow  with  the  contempt  he  deserves. 

[Exit  Sir  George. 

Tinsel.  The  sauciest  dog  I  ever  talk'd  with  in  my  whole 
life! 

Lady.  Methinks  he's  a  diverting  fellow ;  one  may  see  he's 
no  fool. 

Tinsel.  No  fool !  Ay,  but  thou  dost  not  take  him  for  a  con- 
jurer. 

Lady.  Truly  I  don't  know  what  to  take  him  for ;  I  am  re- 
solv'd  to  employ  him  however.  When  a  sickness  is  desperate 
we  often  try  remedies  that  we  have  no  great  faith  in. 

Enter  Abigal. 

Abigal,  Madam,  the  tea  is  ready  in  the  parlour  as  you  or- 
dered. 


THE      DRUMMER.  327 

Lady.  Come,  Mr.  Tinsel,  we  may  there  talk  of  this  subject 
more  at  leisure.  [^Exeunt  Lady  and  Tinsel. 

Abigal  sola.  Sure  never  any  lady  had  such  servants  as  mine 
has !  Well,  if  I  get  this  thousand  pound,  I  hope  to  have  some 
of  my  own.  Let  me  see,  I'll  have  a  pretty  tight  girl — ^just  such 
as  I  was  ten  years  ago  (I'm  afraid  I  may  say  twenty) — she  shall 
dress  me  and  flatter  me — for  I  will  be  flatter'd,  that's  pos  !  My 
lady's  cast  suits  will  serve  her  after  I  have  given  them  the  wear- 
ing. Besides,  when  I  am  worth  a  thousand  pound,  I  shall  cer- 
tainly carry  off  the  steward — Madam  Vellum ! — how  prettily  that 
will  sound  !  here,  bring  out  Madam  Vellum's  chaise — nay,  I  do 
not  know  but  it  may  be  a  chariot — It  will  break  the  attorney's 
wife's  heart — for  I  shall  take  place  of  every  body  in  the  parish 
but  my  lady.  If  I  have  a  son,  he  shall  be  call'd  Fantome.  But 
see  Mr.  Vellum,  as  I  could  wish.  I  know  his  humour,  and  will 
do  my  utmost  to  gain  his  heart. 

Enter  Vellum  with  a  pint  of  sack. 

Vellum.  Mrs.  Abigal,  don't  I  break  in  upon  you  unseason- 
ably ? 

Abigal.  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Vellum,  your  visits  are  always  season- 
able. 

Vellum  I  have  brought  with  me  a  taste  of  fresh  Canary, 
which  I  think  is  delicious. 

Abigal.     Pray  set  it  down — I  have  a  dram  glass  just  by — 

[Brings  in  a  rummer 
I'll  pledge  you ;  my  lady's  good  health. 

Vellum.     And  your  own  with  it — sweet  Mrs.  Abigal. 

Abigal.  Pray,  good  Mr.  Vellum,  buy  me  a  little  parcel  of 
this  sack,  and  put  it  under  the  article  of  tea — I  would  not  have 
my  name  appear  to  it. 

Vellum.     Mrs.   Abigal,  your  name  seldom  appears  in  my 


328  DRAMAS. 

bills — and  yet — if  you  will  allow  me  a  merry  expression — You 
have  been  always  in  my  books,  Mrs.  Abigal.     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Abigal.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Mr.  Yellum,  you  are  such  a  dry  jest- 
ing man ! 

Yellum.  Why,  truly,  Mrs.  Abigal,  I  have  been  looking  over 
my  papers — and  I  find  you  have  been  a  long  time  my  debtor. 

Abigal.     Your  debtor  ;  for  what  Mr.  Vellum  ? 

Yellum.  For  my  heart,  Mrs.  Abigal — And  our  accounts 
will  not  be  balanc'd  between  us,  till  I  have  yours  in  exchange  for 
it.     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Abigal.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  You  are  the  most  gallant  dun,  Mr. 
Yellum. 

Yellum.  But  I  am  not  us'd  to  be  paid  by  words  only,  Mrs. 
Abigal !  when  will  you  be  out  of  my  debt  ? 

Abigal.  Oh,  Mr.  Yellum,  you  make  one  blush — My  humble 
service  to  you. 

Yellum.  I  must  answer  you,  Mrs.  Abigal,  in  the  country 
phrase — *  Your  love  is  sufficient.'     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Abigal.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Well,  I  must  own  I  love  a  merry 
man ! 

Yellum.  Let  me  see,  how  long  is  it,  Mrs.  Abigal,  since  I 
first  broke  my  mind  to  you — It  was,  I  think,  Tlndedmo  Gulielmi 
— We  have  convers'd  together  these  fifteen  years — and  yet,  Mrs. 
Abigal,  I  must  drink  to  our  better  acquaintance.  He,  he,  he, — 
Mrs.  Abigal,  you  know  I  am  naturally  jocose. 

Abigal.  Ah,  you  men  love  to  make  sport  with  us  silly  crea- 
tures. 

Yellum.  Mrs.  Abigal,  I  have  a  trifle  about  me,  which  I 
wou'd  willingly  make  you  a  present  of.  It  is,  indeed,  but  a 
little  toy. 

Abigal.     You  are  always  exceedingly  obliging. 


THE     DRUMMER.  329 

Vellum.  It  is  but  a  little  toy — scarce  worth  your  accept 
ance. 

Abigal.  Pray  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense ;  what  is  it,  Mr 
Vellum? 

VelluxM.     a  silver  thimble. 

Abigal.     I  always  said  Mr.  Vellum  was  a  generous  lover. 

Vellum.  But  I  must  put  it  on  myself,  Mrs.  Abigal — You 
have  the  prettiest  tip  of  a  finger — I  must  take  the  freedom  to 
salute  it. 

Abigal.  Oh  fye  !  you  make  me  ashamed,  Mr.  Vellum  ;  how 
can  you  do  so  ?     I  protest  I  am  in  such  a  confusion. — 

[A  feign  d  struggle. 

Vellum.  This  finger  is  not  the  finger  of  idleness ;  it  bears 
the  honourable  scars  of  the  needle — But  why  are  you  so  cruel  as 
not  to  pare  your  nails  ? 

Abigal.  Oh,  I  vow  you  press  it  so  hard !  pray  give  me  my 
finger  again. 

Vellum.  This  middle  finger,  Mrs.  Abigal,  has  a  pretty 
neighbour — A  wedding  ring  would  become  it  mightily — He, 
he,  he ! 

Abigal.  You're  so  full  of  your  jokes.  Ay,  but  where  must 
I  find  one  for  it  ? 

Vellum.  I  design  this  thimble  only  as  the  forerunner  of  it, 
they  will  set  off  each  other,  and  are — indeed  a  twofold  emblem. 
The  first  will  put  you  in  mind  of  being  a  good  housewife,  and  the 
other  of  being  a  good  wife.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Abigal.     Yes,  yes,  I  see  you  laugh  at  me. 

Vellum.     Indeed  I  am  serious. 

Abigal.  I  thought  you  had  quite  forsaken  me — I  am  sure 
you  cannot  forget  the  many  repeated  vows  and  promises  you 
formerly  made  me. 

Vellum.     I  shou'd  as  soon  forget  the  multiplication  table. 


330  DRAMAS. 

Abigal.     I  have  always  taken  your  part  before  my  lady. 

Vellum.     You  have  so,  and  I  have  item'd  it  in  my  memory. 

Abigal.  For  I  have  always  look'd  upon  your  interest  as  my 
own. 

Yellum.  It  is  nothing  but  your  cruelty  can  hinder  them 
from  being  so. 

Abigal.  I  must  strike  while  the  iron's  hot.  (Aside.) — 
Well,  Mr.  Vellum,  there  is  no  refusing  you,  you  have  such  a  be- 
witching tongue ! 

Vellum.     How  ?  Speak  that  agajn ! 

Abigal.     Why  then  in  plain  English,  I  love  you. 
.     Vellum.     I'm  overjoyed ! 

Abigal.     I  must  own  my  passion  for  you. 

Vellum.     I'm  transported !         [  Catches  her  in  his  arms. 

Abigal.     Dear  charming  man  ! 

Vellum.  Thou  sum  total  of  all  my  happiness  !  I  shall  grow 
extravagant!  I  can't  forbear  ! — to  drink  thy  virtuous  inclinations 
in  a  bumper  of  sack.  Your  lady  must  make  haste,  my  duck,  or 
we  shall  provide  a  young  steward  to  the  estate,  before  she  has 
an  heir  to  it — prithee  my  dear,  does  she  intend  to  marry  Mr. 
Tinsel  ? 

Abigal.  Marry  him !  my  love,  no,  no  !  we  must  take  care 
of  that !  there  would  be  no  staying  in  the  ho^se  for  us  if  she  did. 
That  young  rake-hell  wou'd  send  all  the  old  servants  a  grazing. 
You  and  I  shou'd  be  discarded  before  the*  honey-moon  was  at 
an  end. 

Vellum.  Prithee,  sweet  one,  does  not  this  drum  put  the 
thoughts  of  marriage  out  of  her  head  ? 

Abigal.  This  drum,  my  dear,  if  it  be  well  manag'd,  will  be 
no  less  than  a  thousand  pound  in  our  way. 

Vellum.     Ay,  say'st  thou  so,  my  turtle  ? 

Abigal.     Since  we   are   now  as  good  as   man  and  wife — I 


THE      DRUMMER.  331 

mean  almost  as  good  as  man  and  wife — I  ought  to  conceal  no* 
thing  from  you. 

Vellum.  Certainly  my  dove,  not  from  thy  yoke-fellow,  thy 
helpmate,  thy  own  flesh  and  blood  ! 

Abigal.  Hush  I  I  hear  Mr.  Tinsel's  laugh,  my  lady  and  he 
are  coming  this  way;  if  you  will  take  a  turn  without,  I'll  tell  you 
the  whole  contrivance. 

Yellum.     Give  me  your  hand,  chicken. 

Abigal.     Here,  take  it,  you  have  my  heart  already. 

Vellum.     We  shall  have  much  issue.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE    I. 
Enter  vellum  aTid  butler. 

Vellum.  John,  I  have  certain  orders  to  give  you — and 
therefore  be  attentive 

Butler.  Attentive!  Ay,  let  me  alone  for  that. — I  suppose 
he  means  being  sober.  [Aside. 

Vellum.  You  know  I  have  always  recommended  to  you  a 
method  in  your  business,  *I  wou'd  have  your  knives  and  forks, 
your  spoons  and  napkins,  your  plates  and  glasses,  laid  in  a 
method. 

Butler.  Ah,  Master  Yellum,  you  are  such  a  sweet  spoken 
man,  it  does  one's  heart  good  to  receive  your  orders. 

Vellum.  Method,  John,  makes  business  easy,  it  banishes  all 
perplexity  and  confusion  out  of  families. 

Butler.     How  he  talks  !  I  cou'd  hear  him  all  day. 

Yellum.  And  now,  John,  let  me  know  whether  your  table- 
linen,  your  side-board,  your  cellar,  and  every  thing  else  within 


332 


DRAMAS. 


your  province,  are  properly  and  methodically  dispos'd  for  an  enter- 
tainment this  evening. 

Butler.  Master  Vellum,  they  shall  be  ready  at  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  warning.  But  pray,  sir,  is  this  entertainment  to  be 
made  for  the  conjurer  ? 

Vellum.  It  is,  John,  for  the  conjurer,  and  yet  it  is  not  for 
the  conjurer. 

Butler.  Why,  look  you  Master  Vellum,  if  it  is  for  the  con- 
jurer, the  cook-maid  shou'd  have  orders  to  get  him  some  dishes 
to  his  palate.  Perhaps  he  may  like  a  little  brimstone  in  his 
sauce. 

Vellum.  This  conjurer,  John,  is  a  complicated  creature,  an 
amphibious  animal,  a  person  of  a  twofold  nature — But  he  eats 
and  drinks  like  other  men. 

Butler.  Marry,  Master  Vellum,  he  shou'd  eat  and  drink 
as  much  as  two  other  men,  by  the  account  you  give  of  him. 

Vellum.  Thy  conceit  is  not  amiss,  he  is  indeed  a  double 
man,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Butler.  Ha !  I  understand  you,  he's  one  of  your  herma- 
phrodites, as  they  call  'em. 

Vellum.  He  is  married,  and  he  is  not, — He  hath  a  beard, 
and  he  hath  no  beard.     He  is  old,  and  he  is  young. 

Butler.  How  charmingly  he  talks  !  I  fancy,  Master  Vel- 
lum, you  cou'd  make  a  riddle.  The  same  man  old  and  young! 
How  do  you  make  that  out,  Master  Vellum  ? 

Vellum.  Thou  hast  heard  of  a  snake  casting  his  skin,  and 
recovering  his  youth.     Such  is  this  sage  person. 

Butler.     Nay,  'tis  no  wonder  a  conjurer  shou'd  be  like  a  ser- 
pent. 

Vellum.  When  he  has  thrown  aside  the  old  conjurer's 
slough  that  hangs  about  him,  he'll  come  out  as  fine  a  young  gen- 
tleman as  ever  was  seen  in  this  house. 


THE      DRUMMER.  333 

Butler.     Does  he  intend  to  sup  in  his  slough  ? 

Yellum.     That  time  will  show. 

Butler.  "Well,  I  have  not  a  head  for  these  things.  Indeed, 
Mr.  Vellum,  I  have  not  understood  one  word  you  have  said  this 
half  hour. 

Vellum.  I  did  not  intend  thou  should'st — But  to  our  busi- 
ness— Let  there  be  a  table  spread  in  the  great  hall.  Let  your 
pots  and  glasses  be  wash'd,  and  in  a  readiness.  Bid  the  cook 
provide  a  plentiful  supper,  and  see  that  all  the  servants  be  in 
their  best  liveries. 

Butler.  Ay,  now  I  understand  every  word  you  say.  But  I 
wou'd  rather  hear  you  talk  a  little  in  that  t'other  way. 

Vellum.  I  shall  explain  to  thee  what  I  have  said  by  and 
by. — Bid  Susan  lay  two  pillows  upon  your  lady's  bed. 

Butler.  Two  pillows  !  Madam  won't  sleep  upon  'em  both  1 
She  is  not  a  double  woman  too? 

Vellum.  She  will  sleep  upon  neither.  But  hark,  Mrs. 
Abigal !  I  think  I  hear  her  chiding  the  cook-maid. 

Butler.  Then  I'll  away,  or  it  will  be  my  turn  next;  she,  I 
am  sure,  speaks  plain  English,  one  may  easily  understand  every 
word  she  says.  lExit  Butler. 

Vellum  solus. 

Vellum.  Servants  are  good  for  nothing,  unless  they  have  an 
opinion  of  the  person's  understanding  who  has  the  direction  of 
them — But  see  Mrs.  Abigal !  she  has  a  bewitching  countenance, 
I  wish  I  may  not  be  tempted  to  marry  her  in  good  earnest. 

Enter   Abigal. 

Abigal.     Ha!  Mr.  Vellum. 

Vellum.     What  brings  my  sweet  one  hither  ? 

Abigal.     I  am  coming  to  speak  to  my  friend  behind  the 


334  DRAMAS. 

wainscot.     It  is  fit,  child,  lie  should  have  an  account  of  this  con 
jurer,  that  he  may  not  be  surpris'd. 

Yellum.     That  would  be  as  much  as  thy  thousand  pound  is 
worth. 

Abigal.     I'll  speak  low — walls  have  ears. 

\_Pomting  at  the  wainscot. 

Vellum.     But  hark  you  ducklin !  be  sure  you  do  not  tell  him 
that  I  am  let  into  the  secret. 

Abigal.     That's  a  good  one  indeed  !  as  if  I  should  ever  tell 
what  passes  between  you  and  me. 

Vellum.     No,  no,  my  child,  that  must  not  be ;  he,  he,  he ! 
that  must  not  be  ;  he,  he,  he  ! 

Abigal.     You  will  always  be  waggish. 

Vellum.     Adieu,  and  let  me  hear  the  result  of  your  con- 
ference. 

Abigal.     How  can  you  leave  one  so  soon  ?  I  shall  think  it  an 
age  till  I  see  you  again. 

Vellum.     Adieu  my  pretty  one. 

Abigal.     Adieu  sweet  Mr.  Yellum. 

Vellum.     My  pretty  one —  I'As  he  is  going  off. 

Abigal.     Dear  Mr.  Yellum  ! 

Yellum.     My  pretty  one  !  \_Exit  Vdlum. 

Abigal  sola. 

Abigal.     I  have  him — if  I  can  but  get  this  thousand  pound. 
\Fantome  gives  three  raps  upon  his 
drum  behind  the  wainscot. 
Abigal.     Ha !  three  raps  upon  the  drum  !  the  signal  Mr.  Fan- 
tome  and  I  agreed  upon,  when  he  had  a  mind  to  speak  with  me. 

IFatitome  raps  again. 
Abigal.     Very  well,  I  hear  you ;  come  fox,  come  out  of 
your  hole. 


THE      DRUMMER.  335 

Scene  opens,  and  Fantome  comes  out. 

Abigal.  You  may  leave  your  drum  in  the  wardrobe,  till  you 
have  occasion  for  it. 

Fantome.  "Well,  Mrs.  Abigal,  I  want  to  hear  what  is  a-doing 
in  the  world. 

Abigal.  You  are  a  very  inquisitive  spirit.  But  I  must  tell 
you,  if  you  do  not  take  care  of  yourself,  you  will  be  laid  this 
evening. 

Fantome  I  have  overheard  something  of  that  matter.  But 
let  me  alone  for  the  doctor — I'll  engage  to  give  a  good  account 
of  him.  I  am  more  in  pain  about  Tinsel.  When  a  lady's  in  tho 
case,  I'm  more  afraid  of  one  fop  than  twenty  conjurers. 

Abigal.  To  tell  you  truly,  he  presses  his  attacks  with  so^^-^ 
much  impudence,  that  he  has  made  more  progress  with  my  lady  *^- 
in  two  days,  than  you  did  in  two  months. 

Fantome.  I  shall  attack  her  in  another  manner,  if  thou 
canst  but  procure  me  another  interview.  There's  nothing  makes 
a  lover  so  keen,  as  being  kept  up  in  the  dark. 

Abigal.  Pray  no  more  of  your  distant  bows,  your  respectful 
compliments — Eeally,  Mr.  Fantome,  you're  only  fit  to  make  love 
across  a  tea-table. 

Fantome.  My  dear  girl,  I  can't  forbear  hugging  thee  for  thy 
good  advice. 

Abigal.  Ay,  now  I  have  some  hopes  of  you;  but  why  don't 
you  do  so  to  my  lady  ? 

Fantome.  Child,  I  always  thought  your  lady  loved  to  be 
treated  with  respect. 

Abigal.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Fantome,  there  is  not  so  great  a 
difference  between  woman  and  woman,  as  you  imagine.  You  see 
Tinsel  has  nothing  but  his  sauciness  to  recommend  him. 

Fantome.     Tinsel  is  too  great  a  coxcomb  to  be  capable  of 


336  DRAMAS. 

love — And  let  me  tell  thee,  Abigal,  a  man  who  is  sincere  in  his 
passion,  makes  but  a  very  awkward  profession  of  it — But  I'll 
mend  my  manners, 

Abigal.  Ay,  or  you'll  never  gain  a  widow — Come,  I  must 
tutor  you  a  little ;  suppose  me  to  be  my  lady,  and  let  me  see  how 
you'll  behave  yourself. 

Fantome.  I'm  afraid,  child,  we  han't  time  for  such  a  piece 
of  mummery. 

Abigal.  Oh,  it  will  be  quickly  over,  if  you  play  your  part 
well. 

Fantome.  Why  then,  dear  Mrs.  Ab — I  mean  my  Lady 
Truman. 

Abigal.     Ay !  but  you  han't  saluted  me. 

Fantome.  That's  right ;  faith  I  forgot  that  circumstance. 
{Kisses  her.)     Nectar  and  Ambrosia ! 

Abigal.     That's  very  well — 

Fantome.  How  long  must  I  be  condemned  to  languish  1 
when  shall  my  sufferings  have  an  end  !  My  life  !  my  happiness, 
my  all  is  wound  up  in  you — 

Abigal.     Well !  why  don't  you  squeeze  my  hand  ? 

Fantome.     What,  thus? 

Abigal.  Thus  ?  Ay — ;-Now  throw  your  arm  about  my  mid- 
dle ;  hug  me  closer. — You  are  not  afraid  of  hurting  me !  Now 
pour  forth  a  volley  of  rapture  and  nonsense,  till  you  are  out  of 
breath. 

Fantome.  Transport  and  ecstasy !  where  am  I ! — my  life,  my 
bliss ! — I  rage,  I  burn,  I  bleed,  I  die. 

Abigal.     Go  on,  go  on. 

Fantome.  Flames  and  darts — Bear  me  to  the  gloomy  shade, 
rocks  and  grottoes — flowers,  zephyrs,  and  purling  streams. 

Abigal.  Oh  !  Mr.  Fantome,  you  have  a  tongue  would  undo 
a  vestal !     You  were  born  for  the  ruin  of  our  sex. 


THE      DRUMMER.  337 

Fantome.     This  will  do  then,  Abigal  ? 

Abigal.  Ay,  this  is  talking  like  a  lover.  Though  I  only 
represent  my  lady,  I  take  a  pleasure  in  hearing  you.  "Well,  o' 
my  conscience  when  a  man  of  sense  has  a  little  dash  of  the  cox- 
comb in  him,  no  woman  can  resist  him.  Go  on  at  this  rate,  and 
the  thousand  pound  is  as  good  as  in  my  pocket. 

Fantome.  I  shall  think  it  an  age  till  I  have  an  opportunity 
of  putting  this  lesson  in  practice. 

Abigal.  You  may  do  it  soon,  if  you  make  good  use  of  your 
time  ;  Mr.  Tinsel  will  be  here  with  my  lady  at  eight,  and  at  nine 
the  conjurer  is  to  take  you  in  hand. 

Fantome.     Let  me  alone  with  both  of  them. 

Abigal.  Well !  fore-warn'd,  fore-arm'd.  Get  into  your  box, 
and  I'll  endeavour  to  dispose  every  thing  in  your  favour. 

[Fantoine  goes  in.     Exit  Abigal. 

Enter  Vellum. 

Vellum.  Mrs.  Abigal  is  withdrawn. — I  was  in  hopes  to 
have  heard  what  passed  between  her  and  her  invisible  corres- 
pondent. 

Enter  Tinsel. 

Tinsel.     Vellum !     Vellum ! 

Vellum.     Vellum  !     "We  are,  methinks,  very  familiar  ;  I  am 
not  used  to  be  called  so  by  any  but  their  ho-nours.      (Aside.) 
— What  would  you,  Mr.  Tinsel  ? 

Tinsel.     Let  me  beg  a  favour  of  thee,  old  gentleman. 

Vellum.     What  is  that,  good  sir  ? 

Tinsel.  Prithee,  run  and  fetch  me  the  rent-roll  of  thy  lady's 
estate. 

Vellum.     The  rent-roll  ? 

VOL.   I. — 15 


338  DRAMAS. 

Tinsel.  The  rent-roll  ?  Aj,  the  rent-roll !  dost  not  under- 
stand what  that  means  ? 

Vellum.     Why  ?  have  you  thoughts  of  purchasing  of  it  ? 

Tinsel.  Thou  hast  hit  it,  old  boy ;  that  is  my  very  inten- 
tion. 

Vellum.     The  purchase  will  be  considerable. 

Tinsel.  And  for  that  reason  I  have  bid  thy  lady  very  high — 
She  is  to  have  no  less  for  it  than  this  entire  person  of  mine. 

Vellum.  Is  your  w^hole  estate  personal,  Mr.  Tinsel? — he, 
he,  he ! 

Tinsel.  Why,  you  queer  old  dog,  you  don't  pretend  to  jest, 
d'ye  ?  Look  ye,  Vellum,  if  you  think  of  being  continued  my  stew- 
ard, you  must  learn  to  walk  with  your  toes  out. 

Vellum.     An  insolent  companion  !  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  Thou'rt  confounded  rich,  I  see,  by  that  dangling  of 
thy  arms. 

Vellum.     An  ungracious  bird  !  [Aside. 

Tinsel.     Thou  shalt  lend  me  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds. 

Vellum.     A  very  profligate  !  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  Look  ye.  Vellum,  I  intend  to  be  kind  to  you — I'll 
borrow  some  money  of  you. 

Vellum.  I  cannot  but  smile  to  consider  the  disappointment 
this  young  fellow  will  meet  with  ;  I  will  make  myself  merry  with 
him.  (Aside.)  And  so,  Mr.  Tinsel,  you  promise  you  will  be  a 
very  kind  master  to  me  ?  [Stifling  a  laugh. 

Tinsel.  What  will  you  give  for  a  life  in  the  house  you 
live  in  ? 

Vellum,  What  do  you  think  of  five  hundred  pounds  ? — Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  ,  i 

Tinsel.     That's  too  little.  ^ 

Vellum.  And  yet  it  is  more  than  I  shall  give  you — And  1 
will  offer  you  two  reasons  for  it 


I  T  H  E      D  R  U  M  M  E  R  .  339 

Tinsel.     Prithee,  what  are  they  ? 

Vellum.  First,  because  the  tenement  is  not  in  your  dis- 
posal ;  and,  secondly,  because  it  never  will  be  in  your  disposal : 
and  so  fare  you  well,  good  Mr.  Tinsel.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  You  will 
pardon  me  for  being  jocular.  [Exit  Vellum. 

Tinsel.  This  rogue  is  as  saucy  as  the  conjurer ;  I'll  be 
hang'd  if  they  are  not  a-kin. 

Enter  Lady. 

Lady.  Mr.  Tinsel !  what,  all  alone  ?  You  free-thinkers  are 
great  admirers  of  solitude. 

Tinsel.  No,  faith,  I  have  been  talking  with  thy  steward  ;  a 
very  grotesque  figure  of  a  fellow,  the  very  picture  of  one  of  our 
benchers.     How  can  you  bear  his  conversation  ? 

Lady.  I  keep  him  for  my  steward,  and  not  my  companion. 
He's  a  sober  man. 

Tinsel.  Yes,  yes,  he  looks  like  a  put — a  queer  old  dog  as 
ever  I  saw  in  my  life  :  we  must  turn  him  off,  widow.  He  cheats 
thee  confoundedly,  I  see  that. 

Lady.  Indeed  you're  mistaken,  he  has  always  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  a  very  honest  man. 

Tinsel.     What,  I  suppose  he  goes  to  church. 
Lady.     Goes  to  church  !  so  do  you  too,  I  hope. 
K      Tinsel.     I  would  for  once,  widow,  to  make  sure  of  you. 
K      Lady.     Ah,  Mr.  Tinsel,  a  husband  who  would  not  continue 
pto  go  thither,  would  quickly  forget  the  promises  he  made  there. 
Tinsel.     Faith,  very  innocent,  and  very  ridiculous  !     Well 
then,  I  warrant  thee,  widow,  thou  would'st  not  for  the  world 
j  marry  a  Sabbath-breaker  ! 

i        Lady.    Truly,  they  generally  come  to  a  bad  end.    I  remember 
i  the  conjurer  told  you  you  were  short-liv'd. 
Tinsel.     The  conjurer  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 


340  DRAMAS. 

Lady.     Indeed  you're  very  witty  I 

Tinsel.     Indeed  you're  very  handsome. 

[Kisses  he?  haTid. . 

Lady.     I  wish  the  fool  does  not  love  me  !  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  Thou  art  the  idol  I  adore.  Here  must  I  pay  my 
devotion — Prithee,  widow,  hast  thou  any  timber  upon  thy 
estate  ? 

Lady.    The  most  impudent  fellow  I  ever  met  with.     [Aside. 

Tinsel.  I  take  notice  thou  hast  a  great  deal  of  old  plate  here 
in  the  house,  widow. 

Lady.     Mr.  Tinsel,  you  are  a  very  observing  man. 

Tinsel.  Thy  large  silver  cistern  would  make  a  very  good 
coach ;  and  half  a  dozen  salvers  that  I  saw  on  the  side-board, 
might  be  turn'd  into  six  as  pretty  horses  as  any  that  appear  in 
the  ring. 

Lady.  You  have  a  very  good  fancy,  Mr.  Tinsel — What 
pretty  transformations  you  could  make  in  my  house — But  I'll  see 
where  'twill  end. 

Tinsel.  Then  I  observe,  child,  you  have  two  or  three  ser- 
vices of  gilt  plate ;  we'd  eat  always  in  China,  my  dear. 

Lady.  I  perceive  you  are  an  excellent  manager — How  quickly 
you  have  taken  an  inventory  of  my  goods  ! 

Tinsel.  Now,  hark  ye,  widow,  to  show  you  the  love  that  I 
have  for  you — 

Lady.     Very  "well,  let  me  hear. 

Tinsel.  You  have  an  old-fashioned  gold  caudle-cup,  with  the 
figure  of  a  saint  upon  the  lid  on't. 

Lady.     I  have  :  what  then  ? 

Tinsel.  Why,  look  ye,  I'd  sell  the  caudle-cup  with  the  old 
saint  for  as  much  money  as  they'd  fetch,  which  I  would  convert 
into  a  diamond  buckle,  and  make  you  a  present  of  it. 

Lady.      Oh,  you  are  generous    to  an  extravagance.      But, 


I  THE      DRUMMER.  341 

pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  don't  dispose  of  my  goods  before  you  are  sure 
of  my  person.  I  find  you  have  taken  a  great  affection  to  my 
moveables. 

Tinsel.     My  dear,  I  love  every  thing  that  belongs  to  you. 

Lady.  I  see  you  do,  sir,  you  need  not  make  any  protesta- 
tions upon  that  subject. 

Tinsel.  Pho,  pho,  my  dear,  we  are  growing  serious  ;  and, 
let  me  tell  you,  that's  the  very  next  step  to  being  dull.  Come, 
that  pretty  face  was  never  made  to  look  grave  with. 

Lady.  Believe  me,  sir,  whatever  you  may  think,  marriage  is 
a  serious  subject. 

Tinsel.  For  that  very  reason,  my  dear,  let  us  get  over  it  as 
fast  as  we  can. 

Lady.  I  shou'd  be  very  much  in  haste  for  a  husband,  if  1 
married  within  fourteen  months  after  Sir  George's  decease. 

Tinsel.  Pray,  my  dear,  let  me  ask  you  a  question  ;  dost  not 
thou  think  that  Sir  George  is  as  dead  at  present,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  as  he  will  be  a  twelvemonth  hence  ? 

»Lady.     Yes  :  but  decency,  Mr.  Tinsel — 
TmsEL.     Or  dost  thou  think  thou'lt  be  more  a  widow  then 
than  thou  art  now  ? 

Lady.  The  world  would  say  I  never  lov'd  my  first  hus- 
band. 

Tinsel.     Ah,  my  dear,  they  wou'd  say  you  lov'd  your  second  ; 
and  they  wou'd  own  I  deserv'd  it,  for  I  shall  love  thee  most  in- 
'   ordinately. 

Lady.     But  what  wou'd  people  think  ? 

Tinsel.  Think  !  why  they  wou'd  think  thee  the  mirror  of 
widow-hood. — That  a  woman  shou'd  live  fourteen  whole  months 
after  the  decease  of  her  spouse,  without  having  engaged  herself. 
Why,  about  town,  we  know  many  a  woman  of  quality's  second 
husband  several  years  before  the  death  of  the  first. 


342  DRAMAS. 

Lady.  Ay,  I  know  you  wits  have  y  i>ur  common-place  jests 
upon  us  poor  widows. 

Tinsel.  I'll  tell  you  a  story,  widow  ;  I  know  a  certain  lady 
who,  considering  the  craziness  of  her  husband,  had,  in  case  of 
mortality,  engaged  herself  to  two  young  fellows  of  my  acquaint- 
ance. They  grew  such  desperate  rivals  for  her,  while  her  hus- 
band was  alive,  that  one  of  them  pink'd  the  t'other  in  a  duel. 
But  the  good  lady  was  no  sooner  a  widow,  but  what  did  my  dow- 
ager do  ?  Why  faith,  being  a  woman  of  honour,  she  married  a 
third,  to  whom,  it  seems,  she  had  given  her  first  promise. 

Lady.     And  this  is  a  true  story  upon  your  own  knowledge  ? 

Tinsel.  Every  tittle,  as  I  hope  to  be  marry'd,  or  never  be- 
lieve Tom  Tinsel. 

Lady.  Pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  do  you  call  this  talking  like  a  wit, 
or  like  a  rake  ? 

Tinsel.  Innocent  enough,  He,  he,  he  !  Why  !  where's  the 
difference,  my  dear  ? 

Lady.  Yes,  Mr.  Tinsel,  the  only  man  I  ever  loved  in  my 
life,  had  a  great  deal  of  the  one,  and  nothing  of  the  other  in 
him. 

Tinsel.  Nay,  now  you  grow  vapourish ;  thou'lt  begin  to 
fancy  thou  hear'st  the  drum  by  and  by. 

Lady.  If  you  had  been  here  last  night  about  this  time,  you 
would  not  have  been  so  merry. 

Tinsel.  About  this  time,  say'st  thou  ?  Come,  faith,  for  the 
humour's  sake,  we'll  sit  down  and  listen. 

Lady.     I  will,  if  you'll  promise  to  be  serious. 

Tinsel.  Serious  !  never  fear  me,  child.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Dost 
not  hear  him  ? 

Lady.  You  break  your  word  already.  Pray,  Mr.  Tinsel,  do 
you  laugh  to  show  your  wit  or  your  teeth  ? 

Tinsel.     Why,  both !  my  dear  —  I'm  glad,  however,  that  she 


THE      DRUMMER.  ^  343 

has  taken  notice  of  my  teeth.     (Aside.)     But  you  look  serious, 
child ;  I  fancy  thou  hear'st  the  drum,  dost  not  ? 

Lady.     Don't  talk  so  rashly. 

Tinsel.  Why,  my  dear,  you  cou'd  not  look  more  frighted  if 
you  had  Lucifer's  drum-major  in  your  house. 

Lady.  Mr.  Tinsel,  I  must  desire  to  see  you  no  more  in  it, 
if  you  do  not  leave  this  idle  way  of  talking. 

■  Tinsel.  Child,  I  thought  I  had  told  you  what  is  my  opinion 
of  spirits,  as  we  were  drinking  a  dish  of  tea  but  just  now. — 
There  is  no  such  thing,  I  give  thee  my  word. 

Lady.  Oh,  Mr.  Tinsel,  your  authority  must  be  of  great 
weight  to  those  that  know  you. 

Tinsel.  For  my  part,  child,  I  have  made  myself  easy  in 
those  points. 

Lady.  Sure  nothing  was  ever  like  this  fellow's  vanity,  but 
his  ignorance.  [Aside. 

Tinsel.  I'll  tell  thee  what,  now,  widow  —  I  wou'd  engage 
by  the  help  of  a  white  sheet  and  a  penny-worth  of  link,  in  a  dark 
night,  to  frighten  you  a  whole  country  village  out  of  their  senses, 
and  the  vicar  into  the  bargain.  (Drum  beats.) — Hark  !  hark  ! 
what  noise  is  that !     Heaven  defend  us  !  this  is  more  than  fancy. 

Lady.     It  beats  more  terrible  than  ever. 

Tinsel.  'Tis  very  dreadful !  What  a  dog  have  I  been  to 
speak  against  my  conscience,  only  to  show  my  parts  ! 

Lady.  It  comes  nearer  and  nearer.  I  wish  you  have  not 
anger'd  it  by  your  foolish  discourse. 

Tinsel.  Indeed,  madam,  I  did  not  speak  from  my  heart ;  £ 
hope  it  will  do  me  no  hurt  for  a  little  harmless  raillery. 

Lady.  Harmless,  d'ye  call  it  ?  it  beats  hard  by  us,  as  if  it 
wou'd  break  through  the  wall. 

Tinsel.  What  a  devil  had  I  to  do  with  a  white  sheet  ? — 
(Scene  opens  and  discovers  Fantome.)     Mercy  on  us  !   it  appears. 


344  DRAMAS. 

Lady.  Oh !  'tis  he  !  'tis  he  himself,  'tis  Sir  George  'tis  my 
husband.  [Shejaints. 

Tinsel.  Now  wou'd  I  give  ten  thousand  pound  that  I  were 
in  town.  (Fantome  advances  to  him  drumming.) — I  beg  ten 
thousand  pardons.  I'll  never  talk  at  this  rate  any  more.  (Fan- 
tome  still  advances  drumming.) — By  my  soul,  Sir  George,  I  was 
not  in  earnest,  (falls  on  his  knees)  have  compassion  on  my  youth, 
and  consider  I  am  but  a  coxcomb — (Fantome  points  to  the  door.) 
But  see  he  waves  me  off — ay,  with  all  my  heart — What  a  devil 
had  I  to  do  with  a  white  sheet?  \^He  steals  off  the  stage, 
mending  his  'pace  as  the  drum  heats. 

Fantome.  The  scoundrel  is  gone,  and  has  left  his  mistress 
behind  him.  I'm  mistaken  if  he  makes  love  in  this  house  any 
more.  I  have  now  only  the  conjurer  to  deal  with.  I  don't 
question  but  I  shall  make  his  reverence  scamper  as  fast  as  the 
lover.  And  then  the  day's  my  own.  But  the  servants  are 
coming.     I  must  get  into  my  cupboard.  \H.e  goes  m. 

Enter  Abigal  a^iri  Servants. 

Abigal.  Oh  my  poor  lady  !  This  wicked  drum  has  frighted 
Mr.  Tinsel  out  of  his  wits,  and  my  lady  into  a  swoon.  Let  me 
bend  her  a  little  forward.  She  revives.  Here,  carry  her  into 
the  fresh  air,  and  she'll  recover.  (They  carry  her  off.)  This  is 
a  little  barbarous  to  my  lady,  but  'tis  all  for  her  good :  and  I 
know  her  so  well,  that  she  wou'd  not  be  angry  with  me,  if  she 
knew  what  I  was  to  get  by  it.  And  if  any  of  her  friends  shou'd 
blame  me  for  it  hereafter, 

I'll  clap  my  hand  upon  my  purse  and  tell  'em, 
'Twas  for  a  thousand  pound  and  Mr.  Vellum. 


THE      DRUMMER.  345 

ACTY. 

SCENE    I. 

Enter  Sir  George  in  liis  conjurer's  haMt^  the  Butler  marching 
before  him  with  two  large  candles,  and  the  two  Servants  coming 
after  him^  one  bringing  a  little  table,  and  another  a  chair. 

Butler.      An't    please   your   worship,   Mr.    Conjurer,   the 
steward  has  given  all  of  us  orders  to  do  whatsoever  you  shall  bid 
us,  and  to  pay  you  the  same  respect  as  if  you  were  our  master. 
■ .       Sir  George.     Thou  say'st  well. 

Gardener.  An't  please  your  conjurership's  worship,  shall  I 
set  the  table  down  here  ? 

Sir  George.     Here,  Peter. 

Gardener.     Peter  ! — he  knows  my  name  by  his  learning. 

\^Asicle. 

Coachman.  I  have  brought  you,  reverend  sir,  the  largest 
elbow-chair  in  the  house  ;  'tis  that  the  steward  sits  in  when  he 
holds  a  court. 

Sir  George.     Place  it  there. 

Butler.     Sir,  will  you  please  to  want  any  thing  else  ? 

Sir  George.     Paper,  and  a  pen  and  ink. 

Butler.  Sir,  I  believe  we  have  paper  that  is  fit  for  your 
purpose !  my  lady's  mourning  paper,  that  is  black'd  at  the  edges 
— wou'd  you  chuse  to  write  with  a  crow  quill  ? 

Sir  George.     There  is  none  better. 

Butler.  Coachman,  go  fetch  the  paper  and  standish  out  of 
the  little  parlor. 

Coachman.  (To  the  Gardener.)  Peter,  prithee  do  thou  go 
along  with  me — I'm  afraid — You  know  I  went  with  you  last 
night  into  the  garden,  when  the  cook-maid  wanted  a  handful  of 
parsley. 

VOL.  I. — 15* 


346  DRAMAS. 

Butler.  Why,  you  don't  think  I'll  stay  with  the  conjurer 
by  myself  I 

Gardener.  Come,  we'll  all  three  go  and  fetch  the  pen  and 
ink  together.  \_Exeunt  Servants. 

Sir  George  solus.  There's  nothing,  I  see,  makes  such 
strong  alliances  as  fear.  These  fellows  are  all  enter'd  into  a 
confederacy  against  the  ghost.  There  must  be  abundance  of  busi- 
ness done  in  the  family  at  this  rate.  But  here  comes  the  triple 
alliance.  Who  could  have  thought  these  three  rogues  cou'd 
have  found  each  of  'em  an  employment  in  fetching  a  pen  and  ink  ! 

Enter   Gardener   with  a  sheet  of  paper ^   Coachman  with  a 
standishj  and  Butler  with  a  pen. 

Gardener.     Sir,  there  is  your  paper. 

Coachman.     Sir,  there  is  your  standish. 

Butler.  Sir,  there  is  your  crow-quill  pen — I'm  glad  I  have 
got  rid  on't.  [Aside. 

Gardener.  He  forgets  that  he's  to  make  a  circle — [Aside.) 
Doctor  shall  I  help  you  to  a  bit  of  chalk  ? 

Sir  George.     It  is  no  matter. 

Butler.  Look  ye,  sir,  I  show'd  you  the  spot  where  he's 
heard  oftenest,  if  your  worship  can  but  ferret  him  out  of  that  old 
wall  in  the  next  room — 

Sir  George.     We  shall  try. 

Gardener.  That's  riglit,  John.  His  worship  must  let  fly 
all  his  learning  at  that  old  wall. 

Butler.  Sir,  if  I  was  worthy  to  advise  you,  I  wou'd  hlive  a 
bottle  of  good  October  by  me.  Shall  I  set  a  cup  of  old  stingo 
at  your  elbow  ? 

Sir  George.     I  thank  thee — we  shall  do  without  it. 

Gardener.  John,  he  seems  a  very  good-natur'd  man  for  a 
conjurer. 


THE      DRUMMER.  347 

Butler.  I'll  take  this  opportunity  of  inquiring  after  a  bit 
of  plate  I  have  lost.  I  fancy,  whilst  he  is  in  my  lady's  pay,  one 
may  hedge  in  a  question  or  two  into  the  bargain.  Sir,  Sir,  may 
I  beg  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 

Sir  George.     What  would'st  thou  ! 

Butler.  Sir,  I  know  I  need  not  tell  you,  that  I  lost  one  of 
my  silver  spoons  last  week. 

Sir  George.     Mark'd  with  a  swan's  neck — 

Butler.  My  lady's  crest !  He  knows  every  thing.  (Aside.) 
How  would  your  worship  advise  me  to  recover  it  again  ? 

Sir  George.     Hum ! 

Butler.     What  must  I  do  to  come  at  it  ? 

Sir  George.     Drink  nothing  but  small-beer  for  a  fortnight — 

Butler.     Small-beer !      Bot-gut ! 

Sir  George.  If .  thou  drink'st  a  single  drop  of  ale  before 
fifteen  days  are  expir'd — it  is  as  much — as  thy  spoon — is  worth. 

Butler.  I  shall  never  recover  it  that  way  ;  I'll  e'en  buy  a 
new  one.  [Aside. 

Coachman.     D'ye  mind  how  they  whisper  ? 

Gardener.  I'll  be  hang'd  if  he  be  not  asking  him  something 
about  Nell — 

Coachman.  I'll  take  this  opportunity  of  putting  a  question 
to  him  about  poor  Dobbin :  I  fancy  he  cou'd  give  me  better 
counsel  than  the  farrier. 

Butler.  {To  the  Gardener.)  A  prodigious  man  !  he  knows 
every  thing  :  Now  is  the  time  to  find  out  thy  pick-axe. 

,  Gardener.     I  have  nothing  to  give  him :  does  he  not  expect 
to  have  his  hand  cross'd  with  silver  ? 

Coachman.  {To  Sir  George.)  Sir,  may  a  man  venture  to 
usk  you  a  question  ? 

Sir  George.     Ask  it. 


348  DRAMAS. 

Coachman.  I  have  a  poor  horse  in  tlie  stable  that's  be- 
witched— 

Sir  George.     A  bay  gelding. 

Coachman.     How  could  he  know  that  ? —  [Aside. 

Sir  George.     Bought  at  Banbury. 

Coachman.     AVhew — so  it  was  o'  my  conscience.     [  Whistles. 

Sir  George.     Six  years  old  last  Lammas. 

Coachman.  To  a  day.  (Aside.)  Now,  sir,  I  would  know 
whether  the  poor  beast  is  bewitch' d  by  Goody  Crouch,  or  Goody 
Flye? 

Sir  George.     Neither. 

Coachman.  Then  it  must  be  Goody  Gurton  1  for  she  is  the 
next  oldest  woman  in  the  parish. 

Gardener.     Hast  thou  done,  Robin  ? 

Coachman.  (To  the  Gardener.)  He  can  tell  thee  any 
thing. 

Gardener.  (To  Sir  George.)  Sir,  I  wou'd  beg  to  take 
you  a  little  further  out  of  hearing — 

Sir  George.     Speak. 

Gardener.  The  Butler  and  I,  Mr.  Doctor,  were  both  of  us 
in  love  at  the  same  time  with  a  certain  person. 

Sir  George.     A  woman. 

Gardener.     How  could  he  knorw  that  ?  \^ Aside. 

Sir  George.     Go  on. 

Gardener.  This  woman  has  lately  had  two  children  at  a 
birth. 

Sir  George.     Twins. 

Gardener.     Prodigious  !  where  could  he  hear  that  ?    [Aside. 

Sir  George.     Proceed. 

Gardener.  Now,  because  I  us'd  to  meet  her  sometimes  in 
the  garden,  she  has  laid  them  both — 

Sir  George.     To  thee. 


THE      DRUMMER.  349 

Gardener.  What  a  power  of  learning  he  must  have !  he 
knows  every  thing.  \_Aside. 

Sir  GrEORGE.     Hast  thou  done  ? 
.    Gardener.     I  would  desire  to  know  whether  I  am  really 
father  to  them  both. 

Sir  George.  Stand  before  me,  let  me  survey  thee  round. 
(Lays  his  wand  upon  his  head  and  makes  him  turn  about.) 

Coachman.  Look  yonder  John,  the  silly  dog  is  turning 
about  under  the  conjurer's  wand.  If  he  has  been  saucy  to  him, 
we  shall  see  him  pufif'd  off  in  a  whirlwind  immediately. 

Sir  George.     Twins  dost  thou  say  ?     [^Still  turning  him. 

Gardener.     Ay,  are  they  both  mine  d'ye  think  ? 

Sir  George.     Own  but  one  of  them. 

Gardener.  Ah,  but  Mrs.  Abigal  will  have  me  take  care  of 
them  both — she's  always  for  the  Butler — If  my  poor  master  Sir 
George  had  been  alive,  he  wou'd  have  made  him  go  halves  with 
me. 

Sir  George.     What,  was  Sir  George  a  kind  master  ? 

Gardener.  Was  he  !  ay,  my  fellow-servants  will  bear  me 
witness. 

Sir  George.     Did  ye  love  Sir  George  ? 

Butler.     Every  body  lov'd  him — 

Coachman.  There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  parish  at  the 
news  of  his  death — 

Gardener.     He  was  the  best  neighbour — 

Butler.     The  kindest  husband — 

-Coachman.     The  truest  friend  to  the  poor — 

Butler.  My  good  lady  took  on  mightily,  we  all  thought  it 
wou'd  have  been  the  death  of  her — 

Sir  George.  I  protest  these  fellows  melt  me  !  I  think  the 
time  long  till  I  am  their  master  again,  that  I  may  be  kind  to 
them.  [Aside. 


350 


DRAMAS. 


JElnter  Yellum. 


Vellum.  Have  you  provided  the  doctor  ev'ry  thing  he  has 
occasion  for  ?  if  so — you  may  depart. 

l^xeunt  Servants. 

Sir  George.  I  can  as  yet  see  no  hurt  in  my  wife's  be- 
haviour ;  but  still  have  some  certain  pangs  and  doubts,  that  are 
natural  to  the  heart  of  a  fond  man.  I  must  take  the  advantage 
of  my  disguise  to  be  thoroughly  satisfied.  It  wou'd  neither  be 
for  her  happiness,  nor  mine,  to  make  myself  known  to  her  till  I 
am  so.  (Aside.)  Dear  Yellum !  I  am  impatient  to  hear  some 
news  of  my  wife,  how  does  she  after  her  fright  ? 

Yellum.  It  is  a  saying  somewhere  in  my  Lord  Coke,  that  a 
widow — 

Sir  George.  I  ask  of  my  wife,  and  thou  talk'st  to  me  of 
my  Lord  Coke — prithee  tell  me  how  she  does,  for  I  am  in  pain 
for  her. 

-  Yellum.  She  is  pretty  well  recover'd,  Mrs.  Abigal  has  put 
her  in  good  heart";  and  I  have  given  her  great  hopes  from  your 
skill. 

Sir  George.  That  I^think  cannot  fail,  since  thou  hast  got 
this  secret  out  of  Abigal.  But  I  cou'd  not  have  thought  my 
friend  Fantome  would  have  served  me  thus — 

Yellum.     You  will  still  fancy  you  are  a  living  man — 

Sir  George.  That  he  should  endeavour  to  ensnare  my 
wife. 

Yellum.  You  have  no  right  in  her,  after  your  demise : 
death  extinguishes  all  property. — Quoad  hanc — It  is  a  maxim 
in  the  law. 

Sir  George.  A  pox  on  your  learning !  Well,  but  what  ia 
become  of  Tinsel. 

Yellum.     He  rush'd  out  of  the  house,  call'd  for  his  horse, 


THE      DRUMMER.  351 

clapp'd  spurs  to  his  sides,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  less  time  than 
I — can — tell — ten. 

Sir  George.  This  is  whimsical  enough !  my  wife  will  have 
a  quick  succession  of  lovers  in  one  day — Fantome  has  driven  out 
Tinselj  and  I  shall  drive  out  Fantome. 

Vellum.  Ev'n  as  one  wedge  driveth  out  another — he,  he, 
he !  you  must  pardon  me  for  being  jocular. 

Sir  George.  Was  there  ever  such  a  provoking  blockhead ! 
but  he  means  me  well.  (Aside.)  Well !  I  must  have  satisfac- 
tion of  this  traitor,  Fantome ;  and  cannot  take  a  more  proper 
one,  than  by  turning  him  out  of  my  house,  in  a  manner  that  shall 
throw  shame  upon  him,  and  make  him  ridiculous  as  long  as  he 
lives.  You  must  remember,  Yellum,  you  have  abundance  of 
business  upon  your  hands,  and  I  have  but  just  time  to  tell  it 
you  over;  all  I  require  of  you  is  dispatch,  therefore  hear  me. 

Vellum.  There  is  nothing  more  requisite  in  business  than 
dispatch — 

Sir  George.     Then  hear  me. 

Vellum.     It  is  indeed  the  life  of  business — 

Sir  George.     Hear  me  then,  I  say. 

Vellum.  And  as  one  has  rightly  observed,  the  benefit  that 
attends  it  is  four-fold.     First — 

Sir  George.  There  is'  no  bearing  this  !  Thou  art  a  going 
to  describe  dispatch,  when  thou  shouldst  be  practising  it. 

Vellum.     But  your  ho-nour  will  not  give  me  the  hearing— 

Sir  George.     Thou  wilt  not  give  me  the  hearing. 

[Angril2/. 

Vellum.     I  am  still. 

Sir  George.  In  the  first  place,  you  are  to  lay  my  wig,  hat, 
and  sword,  ready  for  me  in  the  closet,  and  one  of  my  scarlet 
coats.     You  know  how  Abigal  has  described  the  ghost  to  you. 

Vellum.     It  shall  be  done. 


352  DRAMAS. 

Sir  George.  Then  you  must  remember,  whilst  I  am  laying 
this  ghost,  you  are  to  prepare  my  wife  for  the  reception  of  her 
real  husband ;  tell  her  the  whole  story,  and  do  it  with  all  the 
art  you  are  master  of,  that  the  surprise  may  not  be  too  great  for 
her. 

Vellum.  It  shall  be  done — But  since  her  ho-nour  has  seen 
this  apparition,  she  desires  to  see  you  once  more,  before  you  en- 
counter it. 

Sir  GrEORGE.  I  shall  expect  her  impatiently.  For .  now  I 
can  talk  to  her  without  being  interrupted  by  that  impertinent 
rogue  Tinsel..  I  hope  thou  hast  not  told  Abigal  any  thing  of 
the  secret. 

Vellum.     Mrs.  Abigal  is  a  woman  ;  there  are  many  reasons 

why  she  should  not  be  acquainted  with  it;  I  shall  only  mention 

six — 

Sir  George,     Hush,  here  she  comes !     Oh  my  heart ! 

Enter  Lady  and  Abigal. 

Sir  George.  (Aside,  while  Vellum  talks  in  dumb  show  to 
Lady.)  0  that  lov'd  woman !  How  I  long  to  take  her  in  my 
arms  !  If  I  find  I  am  still  dear  to  her  memory,  it  will  be  a 
return  to  life  indeed  !  But  I  must  take  care  of  indulging  this 
tenderness,  and  put  on  a  behaviour  more  suitable  to  my  present 
character. 

[  Walks  at  a  distance  in  a  pensive  posture^ 
waving  his  hand. 

Lady.  [To  Vellum.)  This  is  surprising  indeed!  So  all 
the  servants  tell  me ;  they  say  he  knows  every  thing  that  has 
happen'd  in  the  family. 

Abigal.  {Aside.)  A  parcel  of  credulous  fools !  they  first 
tell  him  their  secrets,  and  then  wonder  how  he  comes  to  know 
them.  [Exit  Vellum,  exchanging  fo}id  looks  with  Abigal. 


THE      DRUMMER.  353 

Lady.  Learned  sir,  may  I  have  some  conversation  with  you, 
before  you  begin  your  ceremonies  ? 

Sir  G-eorge.     Speak !  but  hold — first  let  me  feel  your  pulse. 
Lady.     What  can  you  learn  from  that  ? 

Sir  George.  I  have  already  learn'd  a  secret  from  it,  that 
will  astonish  you. 

Lady.     Pray,  what  is  it  ? 

Sir  George.  You  will  have  a  husband  within  this  half 
hour. 

Abigal.  (Aside.)  I'm  glad  to  hear  that — He  must  mean 
Mr.  Fantome ;  I  begin  to  think  there's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in 
his  art. 

Lady.  Alas  !  I  fear  you  mean  I  shall  see  Sir  George's  appa- 
rition a  second  time. 

Sir  George.  Have  courage,  you  shall  see  the  apparition  no 
more.  The  husband  I  mention  shall  be  as  much  alive  as  I 
am. 

Abigal.     Mr.  Fantome  to  be  sure.  lAside. 

Lady.     Impossible  !  I  lov'd  my  first  too  well. 

Sir  George.  You  could  not  love  the  first  better  than  you 
will  love  the  second. 

Abigal.  (Aside.)  I'll  be  hang'd  if  my  dear  steward  has 
not  instructed  him ;  he  means  Mr.  Fantome  to  be  sure ;  the 
thousand  pound  is  our  own  ! 

Lady.     Alas !  you  did  not  know  Sir  George. 

Sir  George.  As  well  as  I  do  myself — I  saw  him  with  you 
in  the  red  damask  room,  when  he  first  made  love  to  you ;  your 
mother  left  you  together,  under  pretence  of  receiving  a  visit  from 
Mrs.  Hawthorn,  on  her  return  from  London. 

Lady.     This  is  astonishing ! 

Sir  George.  You  were  a  great  admirer  of  a  single  life  for 
the  first  half  hour ;  your  refusals  then  grew  still  fainter  and  fainter 


354  DRAMAS. 

"With  whdt  tjcstasy  did  Sir  George  kiss  your  hand,  when  you 
told  him  you  should  always  follow  the  advice  of  your  Mamma ! 

Lady.     Every  circumstance  to  a  tittle  ! 

Sir  George.  Then,  lady !  the  wedding  night !  I  saw  you 
in  your  white  satin  night-gown  ?  you  would  not  come  out  of  your 
dressing-room,  till  Sir  George  took  you  out  by  force.  He  drew 
you  gently  by  the  hand — you  struggled — but  he  was  too  strong 
for  you — You  blush'd.     He — 

Lady.  Oh  !  stop  there  !  go  no  farther ! — He  knows  every 
thing.  lAside. 

Abigal.  Truly,  Mr.  Conjurer,  I  believe  you  have  been  a 
wag  in  your  youth. 

Sir  George.  Mrs.  Abigal,  you  know  what  your  good  word 
cost  Sir  George,  a  purse  of  broad  pieces,  Mrs.  Abigal — 

Abigal.  The  devil's  in  him.  (Aside.)  Pray,  sir,  since 
you  have  told  so  far,  you  should  tell  my  lady  that  I  refus'd  to 
take  them. 

Sir  George.  'Tis  true,  child,  he  was  forced  to  thrust  them 
into  your  bosom. 

Abigal.  This  rogue  will  mention  the  thousand  pound,  if  I 
don't  take  care.  (Aside.)  Pray,  sir,  though  you  are  a  conjurer, 
methinks  you  need  not  be  a  blab — 

Lady.  Sir,  since  I  have  now  no  reason  to  doubt  of  your 
art,  I  must  beseech  you  to  treat  this  apparition  gently — It  has 
the  resemblance  of  my  deceas'd  husband ;  if  there  be  any  un- 
discover'd  secret,  any  thing  that  troubles  his  rest,  learn  it  of 
him. 

Sir  George.  I  must  to  that  end  be  sincerely  informed  by 
you,  whether  your  heart  be  engaged  to  another ;  have  not  you 
received  the  addresses  of  many  lovers  since  his  death  ? 

Lady.  I  have  been  obliged  to  receive  more  visits  than  have 
been  agreeable. 


THE      DRUMMER.  355 

Sir  G-eorge.  Was  not  Tinsel  welcome  ? — I'm  afraid  to  hear 
an  answer  to  my  own  question.  \_Aside. 

Lady.     He  was  well  recommended. 

Sir  George.     Racks !  [Aside. 

Lady.     Of  a  good  family. 

Sir  George.     Tortures !  [Aside. 

Lady.     Heir  to  a  considerable  estate  ! 

Sir  George.  Death!  (Aside.)  And  you  still  love  him? — 
I'm  distracted  !  [Aside. 

Lady.  No,  I  despise  him.  I  found  he  had  a  design  upon 
my  fortune,  was  base,  profligate,  cowardly,  and  every  thing  that 
could  be  expected  from  a  man  of  the  vilest  principles  ! — 

Sir  George.     I'm  recover'd.  [Aside. 

Abigal.  Oh,  madam,  had  you  seen  how  like  a  scoundrel  he 
look'd  when  he  left  your  ladyship  in  a  swoon.  Where  have  you 
left  my  lady  ?  says  I.  In  an  elbow-chair,  child,  says  he.  And 
where  are  you  going  ?  says  I.  To  town,  child,  says  he :  for  to 
tell  thee  truly,  child,  says  he,  I  don't  care  for  living  under  the 
same  roof  with  the  devil,  says  he. 

Sir  George.  Well,  lady,  I  see  nothing  in  all  this,  that  may 
hinder  Sir  George's  spirit  from  being  at  rest. 

Lady.  If  he  knows  any  thing  of  what  passes  in  my  heart,  he 
cannot  but  be  satisfied  of  that  fondness  which  I  bear  to  his  memory. 
My  sorrow  for  him  is  always  fresh  when  I  think  of  him.  He 
was  the  kindest,  truest,  tenderest — Tears  will  not  let  me  go  on — 

Sir  George.  This  quite  o'erpowers  me — I  shall  discover 
myself  before  my  time.  (Aside.) — Madam,  you  may  now  retire 
and  leave  me  to  myself. 

Lady.     Success  attend  you ! 

Abigal.  I  wish  Mr.  Fantome  gets  well  off  from  this  old 
don — I  know  he'll  be  with  him  immediately. 

[Exeunt  Lady  and  Abigal. 


656  DRAMAS. 

Sir  George  solus. 

Sir  George.  My  heart  is  now  at  ease,  she  is  the  same  dear 
woman  I  left  her — Now  for  my  revenge  upon  Fantome. — I  shall 
cat  the  ceremonies  short — A  few  words  will  do  his  business — 
Now  let  me  seat  myself  in  form — A  good  easy  chair  for  a  con- 
jurer this ! — Now  for  a  few  mathematical  scratches — a  good  lucky 
scrawl,  that — faith,  I  think  it  looks  very  astrological — These 
two  or  three  magical  pot-hooks  about  it,  make  it  a  compleat  con- 
jurer's scheme.  (Drum  beats.)  Ha,  ha,  ha,  sir,  are  you  there? 
Enter  Drummer.     Now  must  I  pore  upon  my  paper. 

Ente?'  Fantome,  beating  his  drum. 

Sir  George.  Prithee  don't  make  a  noise,  I'm  busy.  (Fan- 
tome  beats.) — A  pretty  march !  prithee  beat  that  over  again. 

\^He  beats  and  advances. 

Sir  George.  {Rising.)  Ha !  you're  very  perfect  in  the 
step  of  a  ghost.  You  stalk  it  majestically.  (Fantome  advances.) — 
How  the  rogue  stares  !  he  acts  it  to  admiration;  I'll  be  hang'd  if 
he  has  not  been  practising  this  half  hour  in  Mrs.  Abigal's  ward- 
robe. (Fantome  starts,  gives  a  rap  upon  his  drum.) — Prithee 
don't  play  the  feol !  (Fa?itome  beats.) — Nay,  nay,  enough  of  this, 
good  Mr.  Fantome. 

Fantome.  (Aside.)  Death !  I'm  discover'd.  This  jade 
Abigal  has  betrayed  me. 

Sir  George.  Mr.  Fantome,  upon  the  word  of  an  astrologer, 
your  thousand  pound  bribe  will  never  gain  my  lady  Truman. 

Fantome.     'Tis  plain,  she  has  told  him  all.  [Aside. 

Sir  George.  Let  me  advise  you  to  make  off  as  fast  as  you 
can,  or  I  plainly  perceive  by  my  art,  Mr.  Ghost  will  have  his 
bones  broke. 

Fantome.  (To  Sir  George.)  Look  ye,  old  gentleman,  I 
perceive  you  have  learnt  this  secret  from  Mrs.  Abigal. 


THE      DRUMMER.  357 

Sir  George.     I  have  learn'd  it  from  my  art. 

Fantome.  Thy  art !  prithee  no  more  of  that.  Look  ye,  I 
know  you  are  a  cheat  as  much  as  I  am.  And  if  thou'lt  keep  my 
counsel,  I'll  give  thee  ten  broad  pieces. 

Sir  George.  I  am  not  mercenary !  Young  man,  I  scorn 
thy  gold. 

Fantome.     I'^  make  them  up  twenty. — 

Sir  George.  Avaunt !  and  that  quickly,  or  I'll  raise  such  an 
apparition,  as  shall — 

Fantome.  An  apparition,  old  gentleman !  you  mistake  your 
man,  I  am  not  to  be  frighten'd  with  bugbears. 

Sir  George.  Let  me  retire  but  for  a  few  moments,  and  I 
will  give  thee  such  a  proof  of  my  art — 

Fantome.  Why,  if  thou  hast  any  hocus  pocus  tricks  to  play, 
why  can'st  not  do  them  here  ? 

Sir  George.  The  raising  of  a  spirit  requires  certain  secret 
mysteries  to  be  performed,  and  words  to  be  mutter'd  in  pri- 
vate— 

Fantome-  Well,  if  I  see  through  your  trick,  will  you  pro- 
mise to  be  my  friend  ? 

Sir  George.     I  will — attend  and  tremble.  \^Exit. 

Fantome  solus. 

Fantome.  A  very  solemn  old  ass !  but  I  smoke  him, — he 
has  a  mind  to  raise  his  price  upon  me.  I  could  not  think  this 
slut  would  have  used  me  thus — I  begin  to  grow  horribly  tir'd  of 
my  drum,  I  wish  I  was  well  rid  of  it.  However  I  have  got  this 
by  it,  that  it  has  driven  off  Tinsel  for  good  and  all ;  I  shan't  have 
the  mortification  to  see  my  mistress  carried  off  by  such  a  rival. 
Well,  whatever  happens,  I  must  stop  this  old  fellow's  mouth,  I 
must  not  be  sparing  in  hush-money.     But  here  he  comes. 


358  DRAMAS. 

Enter  Sir  George  in  his  own  habit. 

Fantome.  Ha !  what's  that !  Sir  George  Truman !  This 
can  be  no  counterfeit.  His  dress  !  his  shape  !  his  face  !  the  very 
wound  of  which  he  died  !     Nay,  then  'tis  time  to  decamp. 

[Runs  off. 

Sir  George.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Fare  you  well,  good  Sir  George — • 
The  enemy  has  left  me  master  of  the  field :  here  are  the  marks 
of  my  victory.  This  drum  will  I  hang  up  in  my  great  hall  as  the 
trophy  of  the  day. 

Enter  Abigal. 
Sir  George  stands  with  his  hand  before  his  face  in  a  musing  posture. 

Abigal.  Yonder  he  is.  O'my  conscience  he  has  driven  off 
the  conjurer.  Mr.  Fantome,  Mr.  Fantome !  I  give  you  joy,  I 
give  you  joy.  What  do  you  think  of  your  thousand  pounds  now  ? 
Why  does  not  the  man  speak  ?  {^Pulls  him  by  the  sleeve. 

Sir  George.     Ha!  \Talcing  Jiis  hand  from  his  face. 

Abigal.     Oh  !  'tis  my  master.  \_Shricks. 

{Running  away  he  catches  her. 

Sir  George.     Good  Mrs.  Abigal  not  so  fast. 

Abigal.  Are  you  alive,  sir? — He  has  given  my  shoulder 
such  a  cursed  tweak !  they  must  be  real  fingers.  I  feel  'em  I'm 
sure. 

Sir  George.     What  do'st  think  ? 

Abigal.  Think,  sir  ?  Think  ?  Troth  I  don't  know  what  to 
think.     Pray,  sir,  how — 

Sir  George.  No  questions,  good  Abigal.  Thy  curiosity 
shall  be  satisfied  in  good  time.     AVherc's  your  lady  ? 

Abigal.     Oh,  I'm  so  frighted — and  so  glad  ! — 

Sir  George.     Where's  your  lady,  I  ask  you — 


THE      DRUMMER.  359 

Abigal.  Marry  I  don't  know  where  I  am  myself — I  can't 
forbear  weeping  for  joy — 

Sir  George.  Your  lady  !  I  say  your  lady  !  I  must  bring 
you  to  yourself  with  one  pinch  more — 

Aeigal.  Oh !  she  has  been  talking  a  good  while  with  the 
steward. 

Sir  Gtegrge.  Then  he  has  opened  the  whole  story  to  her, 
I'm  glad  he  has  prepar'd  her.     Oh  !  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Jjkdy  followed  hy  Vellum. 

Lady.  Where  is  he  ?  let  me  fly  into  his  arms  !  my  life  !  my 
soul !  my  husband  ! 

Sir  George.  Oh  !  let  me  catch  thee  to  my  heart,  dearest  of 
women  ! 

Lady.  Are  you  then  still  alive,  and  are  you  here !  I  can 
scarce  believe  my  senses  !     Now  am  I  happy  indeed  ! 

Sir  George.     My  heart  is  too  full  to  answer  thee. 

Lady.  How  could  you  be  so  cruel  to  defer  giving  me  that 
joy  which  you  knew  I  must  receive  from  your  presence?  You 
have  robb'd  my  life  of  some  hours  of  happiness  that  ought  to  have 
been  in  it. 

Sir  George.  It  was  to  make  our  happiness  the  more  sincere 
and  unmix'd.  There  will  be  now'^o  doubts  to  dash  it.  What 
has  been  the  affliction  of  our  lives,  has  given  a  variety  to  them, 
and  will  hereafter  supply  us  with  a  thousand  materials  to  talk  of. 

Lady.  I  am  now  satisfy'd  that  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  ab- 
sence to  lessen  your  love  towards  mc. 

Sir  George.  And  I  am  satisfy'd  tliat  it  is  not  in  the  power 
of  death  to  destroy  that  love  which  makes  me  the  happiest  of 
men. 

Lady.  Was  ever  woman  so  blest !  to  find  again  the  darling 
of  her  soul,  when  she  thought  him  lost  for  ever !  to  enter  into  a 


360  DRAMAS 


^ 


kind  of  second  marriage  with  the  only  man  whom  she  was  ever 
capable  of  loving ! 

Sir  George.  May  it  be  as  happy  as  our  first,  I  desire  no 
more  !  Believe  me,  my  dear,  I  want  words  to  express  those 
transports  of  joy  and  tenderness  which  are  every  moment  rising 
in  my  heart  whilst  I  speak  to  thee. 

Enter  Servants: 

Butler.  Just  as  the  steward  told  us,  lads !  look  ye  there, 
if  he  ben't  with  my  lady  already. 

Gardener.  He !  he  !  he !  what  a  joyful  night  will  this  be 
for  madam ! 

Coachman.  As  I  was  coming  in  at  the  gate,  a  strange  gen- 
tleman whisk'd  by  me  ;  but  he  took  to  his  heels,  and  made  away 
to  the  George.  If  I  did  not  see  master  before  me,  I  should  have 
sworn  it  had  been  his  honour. 

Garpener.     Hast  given  orders  for  the  bells  to  be  set  a  ringing  ? 

Coachman.     Never  trouble  thy  head  about  that,  'tis  done. 

Sir  George.  (To  Lady)  My  dear,  I  long  as  much  to  tell 
you  my  whole  story,  as  you  do  to  hear  it.  In  the  mean  while, 
I  am  to  look  upon  this  as  my  wedding  day.  I'll  have  nothing 
but  the  voice  of  mirth  and  feasting  in  my  house.  My  poor  neigh- 
bours and  my  servants  shall  rejoice  with  me.  My  hall  shall  be 
free  to  every  one,  and  let  my  cellars  be  thrown  open. 

Butler.     Ah  !  bless  your  honour,  may  you  never  die  again  I 

Coachman.     The  same  good  man  that  ever  he  was ! 

Gardener.     Whurra ! 

Sir  George.  Vellum,  thou  hast  done  me  much  service  to- 
day. I  know  thou  lov'st  Abigal,  but  she's  disappointed  in  a  for- 
tune. I'll  make  it  up  to  both  of  you.  I'll  give  thee  a  thousand 
pounds  with  her.  It  is  not  fit  there  should  be  one  sad  heart  in 
my  house  to-night. 


I 


THE      DRUMMER.  36l 

•I 

Lady.  What  you  do  for  Abigal,  I  know  is  meant  as  a  com- 
pliment to  me.     This  is  a  new  instance  of  your  love. 

Abigal.  Mr.  Vellum,  you  are  a  well-spoken  man :  pray  do 
you  thank  my  master  and  my  lady. 

Sir  George.  Vellum,  I  hope  you  are  not  displeased  with 
the  gift  I  make  you. 

Vellum.     The  gift  is  twofold.     I  receive  from  you 
A  virtuous  partner,  and  a  portion  too ; 
For  which,  in  humble  wise,  I  thank  the  donors ; 
And  so  we  bid  good-night  to  both  your  ho-nours. 


VOL.  I,  16 


THE  EPILOGUE. 


SPOKEN   BY   MRS.   OLDFIELD. 


^o-NiGHT  the  poet's  advocate  I  stand, 
And  he  deserves  the  favour  at  my  hand, 
Who,  in  my  equipage  their  cause  debating, 
Has  plac'd  two  lovers,  and  a  third  in  waiting-, 
If  both  the  first  should  from  their  duty  swerve, 
There's  one  behind  the  wainscote  in  reserve. 
In  his  next  play,  if  I  would  take  this  trouble, 
He  promis'd  me  to  make  the  number  double  : 
In  troth  'twas  spoke  like  an  obliging  creature, 
For  though  'tis  simple,  yet  it  shews  good-nature. 

My  help  thus  ask'd,  I  could  not  chuse  but  grant 
^And  really  I  thought  the  play  would  want  it, 
Void  as  it  is  of  all  the  usual  arts 
To  warm  your  fancies,  and  to  steal  your  hearts  : 
No  court-intrigue,  nor  city  cuckoldom, 
No  song,  no  dance,  no  music — but  a  drum — 
No  smutty  thought  in  doubtful  phrase  express'd  ; 
And,  gentlemen,  if  so,  pray  where's  the  jest  ? 
When  we  would  raise  your  mirth,  you  hardly  know 
Whether,  in  strictness,  you  should  laugh  or  no. 
But  turn  upon  the  ladies  in  the  pit. 
And  if  they  redden,  you  are  sure  'tis  wit. 


*i 


it, 


a 


THE     DRUMMER.  363 

Protect  him  then,  ye  fair  ones  ;  for  the  fair 
Of  all  conditions  are  his  equal  care. 
He  draws  a  widow,  who  of  blameless  carriage, 
True  to  her  jointure,  hates  a  second  marriage  ; 
And,  to  improve  a  virtuous  wife's  delights, 
Out  of  one  man  contrives  two  wedding  nights ; 
Nay,  to  oblige  the  sex  in  every  state, 
A  nymph  of  five  and  forty  finds  her  mate. 

Too  long  has  marriage,  in  this  tasteless  age,      ,  ^ 
With  ill-bred,  raillery  supply'd  the  stage ; 
No  little  scribbler  is  of  wit  so  bare. 
But  has  his  fling  at  the  poor  wedded  pair. 
Our  author  deals  not  in  conceits  so  stale  . 
For  should  th'  examples  of  his  play  prevail, 
No  man  need  blush,  though  true  to  marriage-vows, 
Nor  be  a  jest,  though  he  should  love  his_spouse. 
Thus  has  he  done  you  British  consorts  right. 
Whose  husbands,  should  they  pry  like  mine  to-night, 
Would  never  find  you  in  your  conduct  slipping. 
Though  they  turn'd  conjurers  to  take  you  tripping. 


1 


CATO, 

51   'gSrugBiti 


AS  IT  IS  ACTED   AT  THE  THEATRE  KOYAL,  IN  DEUKY  LANE,  BY  HIS 
MAJESTY'S  SERVANTS. 


Ecce  spoctaculum  dignum,  ad  quod  respiciat,  intentus  operi  suo,  Deus  1  Ecce  par  Deo 
dignura,  vir  fbrtls  cum  mala  fortuna  compositus  1  Non  video,  inquam,  quid  haboat  in 
terris  Jupitor  pulchrius,  si  convertere  animum  velit,  quiim  ut  spectet  Catonem,  jam  par- 
tibus  noi..  semel  fractis,  nihilominus  Inter  ruinas  publicas  erectum. 

Sen.  de  Diven.  Pbov. 


INTRODUCTORY    REMARK 8 

"The  next  year  (1713),  in  which  Cato  came  upon  the  stage,  was 'the 
grand  climacteric  of  Addison's  reputation.  Upon  the  death  of  Cato,  h^-^ 
had,  as  is  said,  planned  a  tragedy  in  the  time  of  his  travels,  and  had  for 
several  years  the  first  four  acts  finished,  which  were  shewir  to  such  as 
were  likely  to  spread  their  admiration.  They  were  seen  by  Pope  and  by 
Gibber,  who  relates  that  Steele,  when  he  took  back  the  copy,  told  him,  in 
the  despicable  cant  of  literary  modesty,  that,  whatever  spirit  his  friend 
had  shewn  in  the  composition,  he  doubted  whether  he  would  have  courage 
sufiicient  to  expose  it  to  the  censure  of  a  British  audience. 

"The  time  however  was  now  come,  when  those  who  affected  to  think 
liberty  in  danger  affected  likewise  to  think  that  a  stage  play  might  pre- 
serve it ;  and  Addison  was  importuned,  in  the  name  of  the  tutelary  deities 
of  Britain,  to  show  his  courage  and  his  zeal  by  finishing  his  design. 

"  To  resume  his  work  he  seemed  perversely  and  unaccountably  unwil- 
ling ;  and  by  a  request,  which  perhaps  he  wished  to  be  denied,  desired 
Mr.  Hughes  to  add  a  fifth  act.  Hughes  supposed  him  serious ;  and,  im- 
dertaking  the  supplement,  brought  in  a  few  days  some  scenes  for  his  ex- 
amination ;  but  he  had  ia  the  mean  time  gone  to  work  himself,  and  pro- 
duced half  an  act,  which  he  afterwards  completed,  but  with  brevity  in-e- 
gularly  disproportionate  to  the  foregoing  parts,  like  ji  task,  performed 
with  reluctance  and  hurried  to  its  conclusion."  ' — Johnson,  Life  of  Addison, 
pp.  84,  85.  , 

"The  tragedy  of  Cato,  which,  contrary  to  the  rule  observed  in  selecting 
the  works  of  other  poets,  has  by  the  weight  of  its  character  forced  its  way 
into  the  late  collection,  is  unquestionably  the  noblest  production  of  Ad- 
dison's genius.  Of  a  work  so  much  read,  it  is  difficult  to  say  any  thing 
new.  About  things  on  which  the  public  thinks  long,  it  commonly  attains 
to  think  right;  and  of  Cato  it  has  been  not  unjustly  determined,  that  it  is 
rather  a  poem  in  dialogue  than  a  drama,  rather  a  succession  of  just  sen- 
timents in  elegant  language,  than  a  representation  of  natural  affections,  or 
of  any  state  probable  or  possible  in  human  life.  Kothing  here  'excites 
or  asfiuages  emotion : '  here  is  '  no  magical  power  of  raising  phantastic 
terror  or  wild  anxiety.'  The  events  are  expected  without  solicitude,  and 
are  remembered  without  joy  or  sorrow,  {Oi  the  agents  we  have  no  care  ; 
we  consider  not  what  they  ai'e  doing  or  what  they  are  suffering  ;  we  Avish 
1  Alfieri  says  that  the  Fifth  Act  should  be  short  and  the  action  rapid.  ('•. 


868  DRAMAS. 

only  to  know  what  they  have  to  say.  Cato  is  a  being  above  our  solici 
tude ;  a  man  of  whom  the  gods  take  care,  and  whom  we  leave  to  their 
care  with  heedless  confidence.  To  the  rest  neither  gods  nor  men  can  have 
much  attention;  for  there  is  not  one  amongst  them  that  strongly  attracts 
either  affection  or  esteem.  But  they  are  made  the  vehicles  of  such  senti- 
ments and  such  expression,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  scene  in  the  play  which 
the  reader  does  not  wish  to  impress  upon  his  memory/' 

"  When  Cato  was  shewn  to  Pope,^  he  advised  the  author  to  print  it,  with- 
out any  theatrical  exhibition ;  supposing  that  it  would  be  read  more 
favourably  than  heard.  Addison  declared  himself  of  the  same  opinion  ; 
but  urged  the  importunity  of  his  friends  for  its  appearance  on  the  stage. 
The  emulation  of  parties  made  it  successful  beyond  expectation ;  and  its 
success  has  introduced  or  confirmed  among  us  the  use  of  dialogue  too  de- 
clamatory, of  unafFecting  elegance,  and  chill  philosophy. 

"  The  universality  of  applause,  however  it  might  quell  the  censure  of 
common  mortals,  had  no  other  effect  than  to  harden  Dennis  in  fixed  dis- 
like;  but  his  dislike  was  not  merely  capricious.  He  found  and  shewed 
many  faults ;  he  shewed  them  indeed  with  anger,  but  he  found  them  with 
acuteness,  such  as  ought  to  rescue  his  criticism  from  oblivion;  though,  at 
last,  it  will  have  no  other  life  than  it  derives  from  the  work  which  it  en- 
deavours to  oppress." — Id.  pp.  110,  111. 

"The  first  four  acts  of  this  drama  had  been  lying  in  his  desk  since  his 
return  from  Italy.  His  modest  and  sensitive  nature  shrank  from  the  risk 
of  a  public  and  shameful  failure ;  and,  though  all  who  saw  the  manuscript 
were  loud  in  praise,  some  thought  it  possible  that  an  audience  might  be- 
come impatient  even  of  very  good  rhetoric ;  and  advised  Addison  to  print 
the  play  without  hazarding  a  representation.  At  length,  after  many  fits 
of  apprehension,  the  poet  yielded  to  the  urgency  of  his  political  friends, 
who  hoped  that  the  public  would  discover  some  analogy  between  the  fol- 
lowers of  Ca3sar  and  the  tories ;  between  Sempronius  and  the  apostate 
Avhigs;  between  Cato,  struggling  to  the  last  for  the"  liberties  of  Rome,  and 
the  band  of  patriots  who  still  stood  firm* round  Halifax  and  Whai-ton. 

"  Addison  gave  the  play  to  the  managers  of  Drury-lane  theatre,  without 
stipulating  for  any  advantage  to  himself  They,  therefore,  thought  them- 
selves bound  to  spare  no  cost  in  scenery  and  dresses.  The  decorations,  it 
is  true,  would  not  have  pleased  the  skilful  eye  of  Mr.  Macready.  Juba's 
waistcoat  blazed  with  gold  lace;  Marcia's  hoop  was  worthy  of  a  duchess 
on  the  birthday ;  and  Cato  wore  a  wig  worth  fifty  guineas.  The  prologue 
was  written  by  Pope,  and  is  undoubtedly  a  dignified  and  spirited  compo- 
sition. The  part  of  the  hero  was  excellently  played  by  Booth.  Steele 
undertook  to  pack  a  house.  The  boxes  were  in  a  blaze  with  the  stars  of 
the  peers  in  opposition.  The  pit  was  crowded  with  attentive  and  friendly 
listeners  from  the  inns  of  court  and  the  literary  coffee-houses.     Sir  Gilbert 

1  Spence. 


c  A  T  o .  ^  369 

Heathcote,  go\  ernor  of  the  Bank  of  England,  was  at  the  head  of  a  power* 
ful  body  of  auxiliaries  from  the  city:  warm  men  and  true  whigs,  but  better 
known  at  Jonathan's  and  Garro'way's  than  in  the  haunts  of  wits  and 
critics. 

"These  precautions  were  quite  superfluous.  The  tories,  as  a  body,  re-  \ 
garded  Addison  with  no  unkind  feelings.  Nor  was  it  for  their  interest —  ' 
professing,  as  they  did,  profound  reverence  for  law  and  prescription,  and 
abhorrence  both  of  popular  insurrections  and  of  standing  armies — to  ap- 
propriate to  themselves  reflections  thrown  on  the  great  military  chief  and 
demagogue,  who,  with  the  support  of  the  legions  and  of  the  common  peo- 
ple, subverted  all  the  ancient  institutions  of  his  country.  Accordingly, 
every  shout  that  was  raised  by  the  members  of  the  Kit-Cat  was  re-echoed 
by  the  high  churchmen  of  the  October;  and  the  curtain  at  length  fell 
amidst  thunders  of  unanimous  applause. 

"  The  delight  and  admiration  of  the  town  were  described  by  the  Guar- 
dian in  terms  which  we  might  attribute  to  partiality,  were  it  not  that  the 
Examiner,  the  organ  of  the  ministry,  held  similar  language.  The  tories, 
indeed,  found  much  to  sneer  at  in  the  conduct  of  their  opponents.  Steele 
had  on  this,  as  on  other  occasions,  shown  more  zeal  than  taste  or  judg- 
ment The  honest  citizen?  who  marched  under  the  orders  of  Sir  Gibby,  as 
he  was  facetiously  called,  probably  knew  better  when  to  buy  and  when 
to  sell  stock  than  when  to  clap  and  when  to  hiss  at  a  play ;  and  incurred 
some  ridicule  by  making  the  hypocritical  Sempronius  their  favourite,  and 
by  giving  to  his  insincere  rants  louder  plaudits  than  they  bestowed  on  the 
temperate  eloquence  of  Cato.  Wharton,  too,  who  had  the  incredible 
eff"rontery  to  applaud  the.lines  about  flying  from  prosperous  vice  and  from 
the  power  of  impious  men  to  a  private  station,  did  not  escape  the  sarcasms 
of  those  who  justly  thought  that  he  could  fly  from  nothing  more  vicious 
or  impious  than  himself.  The  epilogue,  which  was  written  by  Garth,  a 
zealous  whig,  was  severely  and  not  unreasonably  censured  as  ignoble  and 
out  of  Dlace.  But  Addison  was  described,  even  by  the  bitterest  toiy 
writers,  as  a  gentleman  of  wit  and  virtue,  in  whose  friendship  many  per- 
sons of  both  parties  were  happy,  and  whose  name  ought  not  to  be  mixed 
up  with  factious  squabbles. 

"Of  the  jests  by  which  the  triumph  of  the  whig  party  was  disturbed, 
the  most  severe  and  happy  was  Bolingbroke's.  Between  two  acts,  he 
sent  for  Booth  to  his  box,  and  presented  him,  before  the  whole  theatre, 
with  a  purse  of  fifty  guineas,  for  defending  the  cause  of  liberty  so  well 
against  a  perpetual  Dictator.' 

1  "  The  long  sway  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,"  says  Miss  Aikin, "  was  here  glanced  at" 
Under  favour,  if  Bolingbroke  had  meant  no  more  than  this,  his  sarcasm  would  have  been 
pointless.  The  allusion  was  to  the  attempt  which  Marlborough  had  made  to  convert  the 
captain-generalship  into  a  patent  office,  to  be  held  by  himself  for  life.  The  patent  was  stop- 
ped by  Lord  Cowper. 

VOL.    T. — 10* 


370  ,  DRAMAS. 

"It  -was  April;  and  in  April,  a  hundred  and  tliirtj  years  ago,  the  Lon 
don  .season  was  thought  to  be  far  advanced.  During  a  whole  month, 
however,  Cato  was  peiformed  to  overflowing  houses,  and  brought  into  the 
treasury  of  the  theatre  twice  the  gains  of  an  ordinary  spring.  In  the 
summer,  the  Drury-lane  company  went  down  to  the  act  at  Oxford,  and 
there,  before  an  audience  which  retained  an  affectionate  remembrance  of 
Addison's  accomplishments  and  virtues,  his  tragedy  was  acted  during 
several  days.  The  gownsmen  began  to  besiege  the  theatre  in  the  fore- 
noon, and  by  one  in  the  afternoon  all  the  seats  were  filled. 

"About  the  merits  of  the  piece  which  had  so  extraordinary  an  effect,  the 
public,  we  suppose,  has  made  up  its  mind.  To  compare  it  with  the  mas- 
terpieces of  the  Attic  stage,  with  the  great  English  dramas  of  the  time  of 
Elizabeth,  or  even  with  the  productions  of  Schiller's  manhood,  would  be 
absurd  indeed.  VYet  it  contains  excellent  dialogue  and  declamation ;  and, 
among  plays  fashioned  on  the  French  model,  must  be  allowed  to  rank 
high ;  not  indeed  with  Athalie,  Zaire,  or  Saul,  but,  we  think,  not  below 
Cinna ;  and  certainly  above  any  otlier  English  tragedy  of  the  same  school 
— above  many  of  the  plays  of  Corneille — above  man;  of  the  plays  of  Vol- 
taire and  Alfieri — and  above  some  plays  of  Racine.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we 
have  little  doubt  that  Cato  did  as  much  as  the  Tatlers,  Spectators,  aad 
Freeholders  united,  to  raise  Addison's  fame  among  his  contemporaries,    y 

"Tlie  modesty  and  good  nature  of  the  successful  dramatist  had  tamed 
even  the  malignity  of  faction.  But  literary  envy,  it  should  seem,  is  a 
fiercer  passion  than  party  spirit.  It  was  by  a  zealous  whig  that  the 
fiercest  attack  on  the  whig  tragedy  was  made.  John  Dennis  published 
Remarks  on  Cato,  which  were  written  with  some  acuteness,  and  with 
much  coarseness  and  asperity.  But  Addison  neither  defended  himself  nor 
retaliated." — Macaulay,  Essays  (Addison),  pp.  153-156. 

*'  It  may  not  be  a  matter  of  great  importance  to  ascertain  when  and 
where  this  tragedy  was  written ;  but  as  the  accounts  are  conflicting,  and 
place  the  veracity  of  some  of  the  parties  in  jeopardy,  it  may  be  ^is  well, 
notwithstanding  the  point  has  been  touched  on,  to  endeavour  to  reconcile 
these  contradictory  assertions. 

"Tickell  assures  us,  that  'he  took  up  the  design  of  writing  a  play  upon 
this  subject  when  he  was  very  young  at  the  university,  and  even  attempt- 
ed something  in  it  there,  though  not  a  line  as  it  now  stands.'  Tonson  af- 
firms, that  he  wrote  'the  four  first  acts  abroad.'  Doctor  Young  says 
'He  wrote  them  a\l  five  at  Oxford,  and  sent  them  from  thence  to  Drydeii, 
to  my  knowledge.'  Pope  reports,  that  'the  love  part  was  flung  in  after, 
to  comply  with  the  popular  taste  ;  and  that  the  last  act  was  not  written 
till  six  or  seven  years  after,  when  he  came  home.'  Johnson  informs  us, 
that  Addison  being  unwilling  to  resume  his  work,  'desired  Mr.  Hughes  to 
add  a  fifth  act.  Hughes  supposed  him  to  be  serious;  and,  undertaking 
the  »upploment,  brought  in  a  few  day8  some  scenes  for  his  examination :— 


CATO.  371 

but  he  had  In  the  mean  time  gone  to  work  himself,  and  produced  half  an 
act,  AA'hich  he  afterwards  completed. 

"  Tickell's  account  of  four  acts  being  written  at  the  university  is  strjnglj 
supported  by  the  nature  of  the  testimony  afforded  by  all  the  other  ac- 
counts, excepting  Dr.  Young's:  for  Tonson,  Pope,  Johnson,  and  Hughes, 
only  speak  of  four  acts.  It  is  highly  probable  that  Addison  remitted  his 
juvenile  effort  at  tragedy  to  Dry  den ;  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Dr.  Young, 
who  mentions  this  circumstance,  might  have  mistaken  the  number  of  acts, 
or  hastily  concluded  that  an  imperfect  work  would  not  have  been  remitted 
to  Dryden.  Tickell's  incidental  observation  of  there  not  being  of  that 
effort  'a  line  as  it  now  stands,'  and  that  he  performed  the  work  abroad, 
and  retouched  it  in  England,  supports  the  declaration  of  Tonson,  that  four 
acts  were  seen  by  him  at  Rotterdam ;  and  shows  that  Pope  had  some 
foundation  for  his  report,  *that  the  love-scenes  were  thrown  in  after.' 
Johnson  says,  'Such  an  authority  it  is  hard  to  reject;  yet  the  love  is  so 
intimately  mingled  with  the  whole  action,  that  it  cannot  easily  be  thought 
extrinsic  and  adventitious ;  for,  if  it  were  taken  away,  what  would  be 
left?  or  how  were  the  four  acts  filled  in  the  first  draught? '  The  remark 
is,  in  my  opinion,  true ;  and  he  who  has  ever  woven  the  contexture  of  a 
dramatic  plot  must  know,  that  it  would  be  next  to  impossible  to  intro- 
duce and  completely  infuse  into  the  web  one  of  the  most  important  and 
uniting  threads  with  every  varying  shade,  harmonizing  with  the  previously 
finished  portion.  The  two  interrogations  seem  to  imply  the  same  ques- 
tion, and  therefore  require  this  one  answer, — a  barren  outline  which 
could  lead  to  no  dramatic  climax ;  an  unformed  mass,  unfit  either  for  the 
closet  or  the  stage. 

•*I  will  propose,  with  humility,  a  solution  of  the  enigma.  Addison 
wrote  four  acts  of  a  tragedy  when  at  the  university,  and  sent  them  to 
Dryden.  After  his  judgment  had  become  riper,  and  his  taste  more  formed, 
he  became  displeased  with  his  performance,  yet  remained  satisfied  with 
the  subject.  He  erased  all  that  his  better  judgment  pointed  out  to  him 
as  unfit  to  stand,  and  retained  all  those  thoughts  he  approved.  With 
these  materials,  he,  while  abroad,  may  be  said  to  have  rewritten  the  four 
first  acts,  and  to  have  added  the  fifth  in  England,  when  Hughes  was  com- 
posing the  supplementary  act.  This  solution  at  least  removes  the  di- 
lemma in  which  the  various  accounts  had  placed  the  authors  of  them,  and 
shows  that  there  was  not  more  variation  in  their  accounts  than  is  seen 
every  day  in  the  details  of  occurrences  in  which  all  the  witnesses  intend 
to  tell  the  truth."— Ogle,  Life  of  Addison,  pp.  56-GO. 

The  reader  may  be  pleased  to  see  Pope's  account  of  the  first  represen- 
tation.    It  is  in  a  letter  to  Sir  William  Turnbull.1 

i.Por  fair  specimens  of  the  art  of  pulling  in  Queen  Ann's  day  see  Nos.  39,  49,  and  59  of 
tho  Guardian.— G. 


372  DRAMAS.  

....  "As  to  poetical  affairs,  I  am  content  at  present  to  be  a  bare 
looker-on,  and  from  a  practitioner  turn  an  admirer,  which  is  (as  the  world 
goes)  not  very  usual.  Cato  was  not  so  much  the  wonder  of  Rome  in  bis 
d;iys,  as  he  is  of  Britain  in. ours ;  and  though  all  the  foolish  industry  possible 
has  been  used  to  make  it  thought  a  party  play,  yet  what  the  author  once  said 
of  another  may  the  most  properly  in  the  world  be  applied  to  him  on  this 
occasion,  ^^| 

'  Envy  itself  is  dumb,  in  wonder  lost,  ^^^Bl 

And  factions  strive  who  shall  applaud  hlir  most' 

The  numerous  and  violent  claps  of  the  whig  party  on  the  one  side  of  the 
tL»3atre,  were  echoed  back  by  the  tories  on  the  other ;  while  the  author 
sweated  behind  the  scenes  with  concern  to  find  their  applause  proceeding 
more  from  the  hand  than  the  head.  This  was  the  case  too  of  the  prologue 
writer,  who  was  clapped  into  a  staunch  whig  at  almost  every  two  lines. 
I  believe  you  have  heard,  that  after  all  the  applause  of  the  opposite  faction, 
my  lord  Bolingbroke  sent  for  Booth,  who  played  Cato,  into  the  box,  be- 
tween one  of  the  acts,  and  presented  him  with  fifty  guineas;  in  acknow- 
ledgment (as  he  expressed  it)  for  defending  the  cause  of  liberty  so  well 
against  a  Perpetual  Dictator.  The  whigs  are  unwilling  to  be  distanced 
this  way,  and  therefore  design  a  present  to  the  same  Cato  very  speedily ; 
in  the  mean  time  they  are  getting  ready  as  good  a  sentence  as  the  formei 
on  their  side :  so  betwixt  them  it  is  probable  that  Cato  (as  Dr.  Garth  ex 

,  press'd  it)  may  have  something  to  live  upon  after  he  dies. Pope's  works. 

\  •*  When  this  triumphant  performance  had  been  continued,  as  it  should 
1  seem,  during  a  greater  number  of  nights  than  any  play  had  before  l?een 
\  suffered  to  run,  the  publication  was  of  course  the  next  step.  This  ordeal, 
which  has  proved  too  severe  for  many  of  the  best  acting  plays,  had  in  it 
nothing  formidable  for  Cato.  If  the  wise  man  of  the  Stoics,  with  his 
solemn  dignity  and  impassive  virtue,  had  been  invested  by  the  poet  in  his 
last  tragic  scene  with  enough  of  human  interest  to  engage  the  sympathies 
of  an  audience,  there  could  be  little  doubt  of  his  conciliating  the  admira- 
tion and  esteem  of  the  reader.  In  effect,  the  experience  of  more  than  a 
century  has  now  shown,  that  although  this  noble  work  may  occasionally 
be  restored  to  the  stage  with  success  during  some  particular  states  of 
political  feeling,  and  when  aided  by  the  powers  of  an  actor  distinguished 
by  the  talent  of  impressive  declamation,   and  endowed  with  sufficient 

I   dignity  of  figure  and  carriage  fitly  to  impersqnate  the  noble  Roman,  it  is 

I  scarcely  to  be  reckoned  in  the  ordinary  list  of  stock  plays;  but  so  long 
m  Entrlish  literature  exists,  it  can  scarcely  lose  its  rank  among  closet  pieces.  . 
Thus  Dr.  JohHson,  after  remarking  with  much  more  than  enough  of  sever- 
ity,^ on  the  failure  of  all  the  subordinate  characters  strongly  to  attract 
affection  or  esteem,  adds,  that  "  they  are  made  the  vehicles  of  such  senti- 
ments' and  such  expression,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  scene  in  the  play  which 

■^  the  reader  does  not  wish  to  impress  upon  his  memory."     The  eminent 


CATO.  373 

applicability  of  the  last  remark  is  evinced  by  the  extraordinary  number 
oi  quoted  line!t,  with  which  Cato,  even  more  than  the  other  poems  of  Addi- 
son, has  enriched  our  language;  of  this  number  are  the  following: 

Y"Tho  woman  who  deliberates  is  lost." 

"Plant  daggers  in  my  heart." 

"'Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success, 

But  we'll  do  more,  Semproniiis,  we'll  deserve  it" 
"The  pale  unripen'd  beauties  of  the  north." 
"'Tis  not  a  set  of  features,  or  complexion, 
The  tincture  of  the  skin  that  I  admire." 
i  "  Painful  pre-eminence." 
"  Curse  on  his  virtues,  they've  undone  his  country  •  " 

"These  and  others  of  the  fine  thoughts  and  pointed  expressions  with 
which  the  piece  abounds,  still  circulate  among  us  like  current  coin,  though 
often  now  passed,  it  may  be  feared,  with  little  thought  or  knowledge  of 
the  mint  which  issued  them. 

"  When  Dr.  Johnson  remarks,  that  the  success  of  Cato  'has  introduced 
or  confirmed  among  us  the  use  of  dialogue  too  declamatory,  of  unaffecting 
elegance  and  chill  philosophy,'  he  overlooks,  or  possibly  was  unskilled  to 
explore,  a  more  probable  origin  of  the  faults  which  he  indicates,  and  which 
he  has  himself  exemplified.  These  are  found  in  Philips,  Rowe,  Hughes, 
and  other  contemporaries,  to  at  least  as  great  a  degree  as  in  Addison,  in 
whom  they  are  palliated,if  not  entirely  justified,  by  the  nature  of  his  sub- 
ject :  and  they  may  surely  be  traced  to  imitation  of  the  masters  of  French 
tragedy,  whose  genius,  like  the  fthibition  of  their  monarch,  had  gone  near 
to  giving  law  to  all  Europe.  With  respect  to  Philip's  Distressed  Mother, 
this  origin  is  unquestionable,  and  little  less  so  with  respect  to  Cato ;  since 
Addison  always  expressed  himself  concerning  Corneille  and  Racine  with 
marked  esteem,  and  seems  to  have  laid  the  plan  and  begun  the  execution 
of  his  tragedy  during  his  long  sojourn  at  Blois,  while  he  was  making  the 
study  of  the  French  language  his  principal  occupation.  In  the  conduct  of 
his  plot  he  has  made  considerable  sacrifices  to  a  rigid  observance  of  the 
unities  of  time  and  place,  as  laid  down  by  Aristotle,  and  it  can  scarcely 
be  doubted  that  this  restraint,  unknown  to  our  earlier  dramatists,  was 
imposed  upon  him  as  an  indispensable  law  by  the  precepts  and  practice 
of  the  French  school  of  dramatic  art. 

That  the  tragedy  of  Cato  does  not  appeal  strongly  to  the  passions, 
maybe  frankly  conceded ;  but  whatever  be  said  of  its  'unaffeeting  ele- 
gance and  chill  philosophy,'  it  is  at  least  free  from  the  error  which  Boileau 
so  forcibly  remarked  to  Addison  himself  in  the  manner  of  Coi'neillo.  The 
speakers  run  neither  into  description  nor  declamation  unconnected  with 
the  business  of  the  scene,  or  unsuited  to  the  persons  or  the  occasion. 
Severe  correctness  and  good  taste  preside  alike  over  the  sentiments  <itt4 
the  diction. 


/- 


V 


174 


DRAMAS 


"The  vensifieation,  though  deficient  in  the  richness  and  variety  of  pause 
which  charms  in  our  elder  dramatists,  and  like  all  blank  verse  at  this 
period,  constructed  with  too  much  resemblance  to  the  rhymed  couplet,  is 
yet  easy  and  graceful ;  and  certainly  far  preferable  to  that  of  Rowe,  then 
the  most  popular  tragic  writer." — ^Aikin,  Life  of  Addison,  pp.  192-194. 


VERSES 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  CATO. 

While  you  the  fierce  divided  Britons  awe, 

And  Cato  with  an  equal  virtue  draw ; 

While  envy  is  itself  in  wonder  lost, 

And  factions  strive  wJio  shall  applaud  you  most ; 

Forgive  the  fond  ambition  of  a  friend, 

Who  hopes  himself,  not  you,  to  recommend. 

And  join  th'  applause  which  all  the  learn'd  bestow 

On  one,  to  whom  a  perfect  work  they  owe. 

Ta  my  *  light  scenes  I  once  inscrib'd  your  name. 

And  impotently  strove  to  borrow  fame : 

Soon  will  that  die,  which  adds  thy  name  to  mine ; 

Let  me,  then,  live,  join'd  to  a  work  of  thine. 

Richard  Steei,e. 


Tho'  Cato  shines  in  Virgil's  epic  song, 
Prescribing  laws  among  th'  Elysian  throng ; 
Tho'  Lucan's  verse,  exalted  by  his  name, 
O'er  gods  themselves  has  rais'd  the  hero's  fame; 
The  Roman  stage  did  ne'er  his  image  see. 
Prawn  at  full  length  ;  a  task  rcserv'd  for  thee. 

a  Tender  nusband,  dedicated  to  Mr.  Addison. 


•^  ^  ^  DRAMAS, 


By  thee  we  view  the  finish'd  figure  rise, 
And  awful  march  before  our  ravish'd  eyes ; 
We  hear  his  voice  asserting  virtue's  cause ; 
His  fate  renew'd  our  deep  attention  draws, 
Excites  by  turns  our  various  hopes  and  fears, 
A.nd  all  the  patriot  in  thy  scene  appears. 

On  Tiber's  banks  thy  thought  was  first  inspir'd ; 
'Twas  there,  to  some  indulgent  grove  retir'd, 
Rome's  ancient  fortunes  rolling  in  thy  mind, 
Thy  happy  muse  this  manly  work  design'd : 
Or  in  a  dream  thou  saw'st  Rome's  genius  stand, 
A.nd,  leading  Cato  in  his  sacred  hand, 
Point  out  th'  immortal  subject  of  thy  lays, 
And  ask  this  labour  to  record  his  praise. 

'Tis  done — the  hero  lives,  and  charms  our  age  ! 
While  nobler  morals  grace  the  British  stage. 
Great  Shakespear's  ghost,  the  solemn  strain  to  hear, 
(Methinks  I  see  the  laurel'd  shade  appear !) 

Will  hover  o'er  the  scene,  and  wond'ring  view 

His  fav'rite  Brutus  rival'd  thus  by  you. 

Such  Roman  greatness  in  each  action  shines, 

Such  Roman  eloquence  adorns  your  lines, 

That  sure  the  Sybils'  books  this  year  foretold, 

And  in  some  mystic  leaf  was  seen  enroll'd, 

*  Rome,  turn  thy  mournful  eyes  from  Afric's  shore. 

Nor  in  her  sands  thy  Cato's  tomb  explore  ! 

When  thrice  six  hundred  times  the  circling  sun 

His  annual  race  shall  thro'  the  Zodiac  run. 

An  isle  remote  his  monument  shall  rear. 

And  every  generous  Briton  pay  a  tear.' 

J.  Hughes. 


n 


377 


What  do  we  see  !  is  Cato  then  become 

A  greater  name  in  Britain  tlian  in  Rome  ? 

Does  mankind  now  admire  his  virtues  more, 

Tho'  Lucan,  Horace,  Virgil,  wrote  before  ?  ^ 

How  will  posterity  this  truth  explain  ? 

"  Cato  begins  to  live  in  Anna's  reign  : " 

The  world's  great  chiefs,  in  council  or  in  arms, 

Rise  in  your  lines  with  more  exalted  charms ; 

Illustrious  deeds  in  distant  nations  wrought, 

And  virtues  by  departed  heroes  taught, 

Raise  in  your  soul  a  pure  immortal  flame, 

Adorn  your  life,  and  consecrate  your  fame ; 
To  your  renown  all  ages  you  subdue, 
And  Caesar  fought,  and  Cato  bled  for  you. 

Edward  Young. 
All-SouVs  College,  Oxon. 


'Tis  nobly  done  thus  to  enrich  the  stage. 

And  raise  the  thoughts  of  a  degenerate  age. 

To  show,  how  endless  joys  from  freedom  spring : 

How  life  in  bondage  is  a  worthless  thing. 

The  inborn  greatness  of  your  soul  we  view, 

You  tread  the  paths  frequented  by  the  few. 

With  so  much  strength  you  write,  and  so  much  ease, 

Virtue  and  sense  !  how  durst  you  hope  to  please  ? 

Yet  crowds  the  sentiments  of  every  line 

Impartial  clapp'd,  and  own'd  the  work  divine. 

Even  the  sour  critics,  who  malicious  came. 

Eager  to  censure,  and  resolv'd  to  blame, 

Finding  the  hero  regularly  rise, 

Great,  while  he  lives,  but  greater,  when  he  dies, 


378  DRAMAS. 

Sullen  approv'd,  too  obstinate  to  melt, 
And  sicken'd  with  the  pleasures  which  they  felt. 
Not  so  the  fair  their  passions  secret  kept, 
Silent  they  heard,  but  as  they  heard,  they  wept, 
When  gloriously  the  blooming  Marcus  dy'd. 
And  Cato  told  the  gods,  I'm  satisfy'd. 

See  !  how  your  lays  the  British  youth  inflame  ! 
They  long  to  shoot,  and  ripen  into  fame ; 
Applauding  theatres  disturb  their  rest, 
And  unborn  Catos  heave  in  every  breast ; 
Their  nightly  dreams,  their  daily  thoughts  repeat, 
And  pulses  high  with  fancy'd  glories  beat. 
So,  griev'd  to  view  the  Marathonian  spoils, 
The  young  Themist®cles  vow'd  equal  toils  ; 
Did  then  his  schemes  of  future  honours  draw 
From  the  long  triumphs  which  with  tears  he  saw. 

How  shall  I  your  unrival'd  worth  proclaim, 
Lost  in  the  spreading  circle  of  your  fame  ! 
"We  saw  you  the  great  William's  praise  rehearse^ 
And  paint  Britannia's  joys  in  Roman  verse. 
We  heard  at  distance  soft,  enchanting  strains, 
From  blooming  mou7itains,  and  Italian  plains. 
Virgil  began  in  English  dress  to  shine. 
His  voice,  his  looks,  his  grandeur  still  divine. 
From  him  too  soon  unfriendly  you  withdrew. 
But  brought  the  tuneful  Ovid  to  our  view. 
Then,  the  delightful  theme  of  every  tongue, 
Th'  immortal  Marlb'rough  was  your  daring  song 
From  clime  to  clime  the  mighty  victor  flew, 
From  clime  to  clime  as  swiftly  you  pursue ; 
Still  with  the  hero's  glow'd  the  poet's  flame. 
Still  with  his  conquests  you  enlarg'd  your  fame. 


c  A  T  o .  379 

With  boundless  raptures  here  the  muse  could  swell, 
And  on  your  Rosamond  for  ever  dwell : 
There  opening  sweets,  and  every  fragrant  flower 
Luxuriant  smile,  a  never-fading  bower. 
Next,  human  follies  kindly  to  expose. 
You  change  from  numbers,  but  not  sink  in  prose ; 
Whether  in  visionary  scenes  you  play, 
Refine  our  tastes,  or  laugh  our  crimes  away. 
Now,  by  the  buskin'd  muse  you  shine  confest, 
The  patriot  kindles  in  the  poet's  breast. 
Such  energy  of  sense  might  pleasure  raise, 
Tho'  unembellish'd  with  the  charms  of  phrase  : 
Such  charms  of  phrase  would  with  success  be  crown'd, 
Tho'  nonsense  flow'd  in  the  melodious  sound. 
The  chastest  virgin  needs  no  blushes  fear. 
The  learn'd  themselves,  not  uninstructed,  hear, 
The  libertine,  in  pleasures  us'd  to  roll, 
And  idly  sport  with  an  immortal  soul. 
Here  comes,  and  by  the  virtuous  heathen  taught, 
Turns  pale,  and  trembles  at  the  dreadful  thought. 
Whene'er  you  traverse  vast  Numidia's  plains, 
What  sluggish  Briton  in  his  isle  remains  ? 
When  Juba  seeks  the  tiger  with  delight, 
We  beat  the  thicket,  and  provoke  the  fight. 
By  the  description  warm'd,  we  fondly  sweat. 
And  in  the  chilling  east-wind  pant  with  heat. 
What  eyes  behold  not,  how  *  the  stream  refines, 
Till  by  degrees  the  floating  mirror  shines  ?  ' 
While  hurricanes  *  in  circling  eddies  play, 
Tear  up  the  sands,  and  sweep  whole  plains  away,' 
We  shrink  with  horror,  and  confess  our  fear. 
And  all  the  sudden  sounding  ruin  hear. 


380  DRAMAS 


When  purple  robes,  distain'd  with  blood,  deceive, 
And  make  poor  Marcia  beautifully  grieve. 
When  she  her  secret  thoughts  no  more  conceals, 
Forgets  the  woman,  and  her  flame  reveals. 
Well  may  the  prince  exult  with  noble  pride, 
Not  for  his  Libyan  crown,  but  Roman  bride. 

But  I  in  vain  on  single  features  dwell. 
While  all  the  parts  of  the  fair  piece  excel. 
So  rich  the  store,  so  dubious  is  the  feast, 
We  know  not  which  to  pass,  or  which  to  taste. 
The  shining  incidents  so  justly  fall. 
We  may  the  whole  new  scenes  of  t^ransport  call. 
Thus  jewellers  confound  our  wandering  eyes, 
And  with  variety  of  gems  surprise. 
Here  sapphires,  here  the  Sardian  stone  is  seen. 
The  topaz  yellow,  and  the  jasper  green. 
The  costly  brilliant  there,  confus'dly  bright, 
From  numerous  surfaces  darts  trembling  light. 
The  different  colours  mingling  in  a  blaze, 
Silent  we  stand,  unable  where  to  praise, 
In  pleasure  sweetly  lost  ten  thousand  ways. 

L.    EUSDEN. 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 


^ 


% 


Too  long  hath  love  engross'd  Britannia's  stage. 
And  sunk  to  softness  all  our  tragic  rage ; 
By  that  alone  did  empires  fall  or  rise. 
And  fate  depended  on  a  fair  one's  eyes ; 
The  sweet  infection,  mixt  with  dangerous  art, 
Debas'd  our  manhood,  while  it  sooth'd  the  heart. 


CATO.  381 

You  scorn  to  raise  a  grief  thyself  must  blame, 

Nor  from  our  weakness  steal  a  vulgar  fame : 

A  patriot's  fall  may  justly  melt  the  mind, 

And  tears  flow  nobly,  shed  for  all  mankind.  * 

How  do  our  souls  with  gen'rous  pleasure  glow  ! 
Our  hearts  exulting,  while  our  eyes  o'erflow, 
When  thy  firm  hero  stands  beneath  the  weight 
Of  all  his  sufferings  venerably  great ; 
Rome's  poor  remains  still  shelt'ring  by  his  side, 
With  conscious  virtue,  and  becoming  pride. 

The  aged  oak  thus  rears  his  head  in  air. 
His  sap  exhausted,  and  his  branches  bare ; 
'Midst  storms  and  earthquakes  he  maintains  his  state, 
Fixt  deep  in  earth,  and  fasten'd  by  his  weight : 
His  naked  boughs  still  lend  the  shepherds  aid. 
And  his  old  trunk  projects  an  awful  shade. 

Amidst  the  joys  triumphant  peace  bestows. 
Our  patriots  sadden  at  his  glorious  woes. 
Awhile  they  let  the  world's  great  bus'ness  wait, 
Anxious  for  Rome,  and  sigh  for  Cato's  fate. 
Here  taught  how  ancient  heroes  rose  to  fame, 
Our  Britons  crowd,  and  catch  the  Roman  flame, 
Where  states  and  senates  well  might  lend  an  ear, 
And  kings  and  priests  without  a  blush  appear. 

France  boasts  no  more,  but,  fearful  to  engage 
Now  first  pays  homage  to  her  rival's  stage. 
Hastes  to  learn  thee,  and  learning  shall  submit 
Alike  to  British  arms,  and  British  wit : 
No  more  she'll  wonder,  (forc'd  to  do  us  right,) 
Who  think  like  Romans,  could  like  Romans  fight, 

Thy  Oxford  smiles  this  glorious  work  to  see, 
And  fondly  triumphs  in  a  son  like  thee. 


382  '  DRAMAS. 

The  senates,  consuls,  and  the  gods  of  Rome> 
Like  old  acquaintance  at  their  native  home, 
In  thee  we  find  :  each  deed,  each  word  exprest, 
An^  every  thought  that  swell'd  a  Eoman  breast. 
We  trace  each  hint  that  could  thy  soul  inspire 
)     With  YirgiPs  judgment,  and  with  Lucan's  fire  ; 
We  know  thy  worth,  and,  give  us  leave  to  boast. 
We  most  admire,  because  we  know  thee  most. 

Thos.  Tickelu 
QueerCs  College^  Oxon. 


Sir, 
When  your  generous  labour  first  I  view'd. 
And  Gate's  hands  in  his  own  blood  imbru'd  ; 
That  scene  of  death  so  terrible  appears. 
My  soul  could  only  thank  you  with  her  tears. 
Yet  with  such  wondrous  art  your  skilful  hand 
Does  all  the  passions  of  the  soul  command, 
That  even  my  grief  to  praise  and  wonder  turn'd, 
And  envy'd  the  great  death  which  first  I  mourn'd. 

What  pen  but  yours  could  draw  the  doubtful  strife, 
Of  honour  struggling  with  the  love  of  life  ? 
Describe  the  patriot,  obstinately  good. 
As  hovering  o'er  eternity  he  stood  : 
The  wide,  th'  unbounded  ocean  lay  before 
His  piercing  sight,  and  heaven  the  distant  shore. 
Secure  of  endless  bliss,  with  fearless  eyes, 
He  grasps  the  dagger,  and  its  point  defies, 
He  rushes  out  of  life,  to  snatch  the  glorious  prize. 
How  would  old  Rome  rejoice,  to  hear  you  tell 
How  just  her  patriot  liv'd,  how  great  he  fell ! 


n 


I 


CATo.  383 

Recount  his  wondrous  probity  and  truth, 
And  form  new  Jubas  in  the  British  youth. 
Their  generous  souls,  when  he  resigns  his  breath, 
Are  pleas'd  with  ruin,  and  in  love  with  death. 
And  when  her  conquering  sword  Britannia  draws, 
Resolve  to  perish,  or  defend  her  cause. 
Now  first  on  Albion's  theatre  we  see, 
A  perfect  image  of  what  man  should  be  ; 
The  glorious  character  is  now  exprest. 
Of  virtue  dwelling  in  a  human  breast. 
Drawn  at  full  length  by  your  immortal  lines, 
In  Cato's  soul,  as  in  her  heaven,  she  shines. 

DiGBY  Cotes. 

All-Souls  College,  Oxon. 


Left  with  the  Printer  by  an  unknown  hand. 

Now  we  may  speak,  since  Cato  speaks  no  more 
'Tis  praise  at  length,  'twas  rapture  all  before  ; 
"When  crowded  theatres  with  los  rung 
Sent  to  the  skies,  from  whence  thy  genius  sprung : 
Even  civil  rage  awhile  in  thine  was  lost ; 
And  factions  strove  but  to  applaud  thee  most : 
Nor  could  enjoyment  pall  our  longing  taste ; 
But  every  night  was  dearer  than  the  last. 

As  when  old  Rome  in  a  malignant  hour 
Depriv'd  of  some  returning  conqueror. 
Her  debt  of  triumph  to  the  dead  discharg'd, 
For  fame,  for  treasure,  and  her  bounds  enlarg'd : 

*  George  Jeffereys,  Esq.  Gent  Mag.  xxiii.  45. 


184  DRAMAS. 

And  while  his  godlike  figure  mov'd  along, 

Alternate  passions  fir'd  th'  adoring  throng ; 

Tears  flow'd  from  every  eye,  and  shouts  from  every  tongue. 

So  in  thy  pompous  lines  has  Cato  far'd, 

Grac'd  with  an  ample,  tho'  a  late,  reward  : 

A  greater  victor  we  in  him  revere  ; 

A  nobler  triumph  crowns  his  image  here.  i 

With  wonder,  as  with  pleasure,  we  survey 
A  theme  so  scanty  wrought  into  a  play  ; 
So  vast  a  pile  on  such  foundations  plac'd ; 
Like  Ammon's  temple  rear'd  on  Libya's  waste : 
Behold  its  glowing  paint  !  its  easy  weight ! 
Its  nice  proportions  !  and  stupendous  height ! 
How  chaste  the  conduct,  how  divine  the  rage ! 
A  Roman  worthy  on  a  Grecian  stage  ! 

But  where  shall  Cato's  praise  begin  or  end ; 
Inclin'd  to  melt,  and  yet  untaught  to  bend, 
The  firmest  patriot,  and  the  gentlest  friend  ? 
How  great  his  genius,  when  the  traitor  crowd, 
Ready  to  strike  the  blow  their  fury  vow'd ; 
Quell'd  by  his  look,  and  list'ning  to  his  lore, 
Learn,  like  his  passions,  to  rebel  no  more  ! 
When,  lavish  of  his  boiling  blood,  to  prove 
The  cure  of  slavish  life,  and  slighted  love. 
Brave  Marcus  new  in  early  death  appears, 
While  Cato  counts  his  wounds,  and  not  his  years ; 
Who,  checking  private  grief,  the  public  mourns, 
Commands  the  pity  he  so  greatly  scorns. 
But  when  he  strikes,  (to  crown  his  generous  part) 
That  honest,  staunch,  impracticable  heart ; 
No  tears,  no  sobs  pursue  his  parting  breath ; 
^he  dving  Roman  shames  the  pomp  of  death. 


c  A  T  o .  385 

0  !  sacred  freedom,  which  the  powers  bestow 
To  season  blessings,  and  to  soften  woe ; 
Plant  of  our  growth,  and  aim  of  all  our  cares, 
The  toil  of  ages,  and  the  crown  of  wars  : 
If,  taught  by  thee,  the  poet's  wit  has  flow'd 
In  strains  as  precious  as  his  hero's  blood ; 
Preserve  those  strains,  an  everlasting  charm 
To  keep  that  blood  and  thy  remembrance  warm ; 
Be  this  thy  guardian  image  still  secure  ; 
In  vain  shall  force  invade,  or  fraud  allure ; 
Our  great  Palladium  shall  perform  its  part, 
Fix'd  and  enshrin'd  in  every  British  heart. 


The  mind  to  virtue  is  by  verse  subdu'd ; 
And  the  true  poet  is  a  public  good. 
This  Britain  feels,  while  by  your  lines  inspir'd, 
Her  free-born  sons  to  glorious  thoughts  are  fir'd. 
In  Rome  had  you  espous'd  the  vanquish'd  cause, 
Inflam'd  her  senate,  and  upheld  her  laws  ; 
Your  manly  scenes  had  liberty  restor'd, 
And  given  the  just  success  to  Gate's  sword  : 
O'er  Caesar's  arms  your  genius  had  prevail'd  ; 
And  the  muse  triumph'd,  where  the  patriot  fail'd. 

Ambr.  Philips. 


TOL.  I.— 17 


ni> 


CATO.* 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

Fortius,  Marcus. 


Fortius.     The  dawn  is  overcast,  the  morning  low'rs, 
And  heavily  in  clouds  brings  on  the  day, 
The  great,  th'  important  day,  big  with  the  fate 
Of  Cato  and  of  Rome^ — Our  father's  death 
"Would  fill  up  all  the  guilt  of  civil  war. 
And  close  the  scene  of  blood.     Already  Caesar 
Has  ravaged  more  than  half  the  globe,  and  sees 
Mankind  grown  thin  by  his  destructive  sword  : 
Should  he  go  further,  numbers  would  be  wanting 
To  form  new  battles,  and  support  his  crimes. 

i    Ye  gods,  what  havoc  does  ambition  make 

I  /Among  your  works  ! 

'  While  the  present  humour  of  idolizing  Shakespear  continues,  no 
quarter  will  be  given  to  this  poem ;  though  it  be  the  master-piece  of  the 
author,  and  was  the  pride  of  the  age  in  which  it  was  written. — But  a  time 
will  come,  when,  not  as  a  tragedy,  indeed,  (for  which  the  subject  was  un- 
fit) but,  as  a  work  of  art  and  taste,  it  will  be  supremely  admired  by  all 
candid  and  judicious  critics. 

*»  This  opening  of  the  drama  is  too  solemn  and  declamatory.  The  au- 
thor speaks, — not  his  " Persona  dramatis"  Horace  has  given  a  caution 
against  this  misconduct,  in  his  ridicule  of  "  Fortunam  Priarni  cantabo,  et 
nobile  bellmn,"  which  was  addressed  to  the  tragic^  as  well  as,  epic  poet 


CATO.  387 

Who  sees  him  act,  but  envies  every  deed  ? 
Who  hears  him  groan,  and  does  not  wish  to  bleed  ? 
Even  then  proud  Caesar  'midst  triumphal  cars, 
The  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  pomp  of  wars. 
Ignobly  vain,  and  impotently  great, 
Show'd  Rome  her  Cato's  figure  drawn  in  state, 
As  hei;^dead  father's  reverend  image  past, 
f  The  pomp  was  darken'd,  and  the  day  o'ercast, 

f  The  triumph  ceas'd — tears  gush'd  from  every  eye. 

The  world's  great  victor  pass'd  unheeded  by ; 
Her  last  good  man  dejected  Kome  ador'd, 
And  honour'd  Caesar's  less  than  Cato's  sword. 

Britons  attend :  *  be  worth  like  this  approv'd, 
And  show  you  have  the  virtue  to  be  mov'd. 
With  honest  scorn  the  first  fam'd  Cato  view'd 
Rome  learning  arts  from  Greece,  whom  she  subdu'd. 
Our  scene  precariously  subsists  too  long 
On  French  translation,  and  Italian  song  : 
Dare  to  have  sense  yourselves  ;  assert  the  stage, 
Be  justly  warm'd  with  your  own  native  rage. 
Such  plays  alone  should  please  a  British  ear. 
As  Cato's  self  had  not  disdain'd  to  hear. 

*  Britons  attend.  Altered  thus  by  the  author,  from  "Britons  arise"  to 
humour,  we  are  told,  the  timid  delicacy  of  Mr.  Addison,  who  was  in  pain 
least  that  fierce  word  " arise"  should  be  misconstrued  (see  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton's  edition  of  Pope,  Imitations  of  Horace,  ep.  1,  b.  1.)  One  is  apt,  indeed, 
to  think  this  caution  excessive ;  but  tliere  was  ground  enough  for  it,  as 
will  bo  seen,  if  we  reflect,  that  the  poet  himself  had  made  Sempronius  talk 
in  this  strain. — "Rise  Romans,  rise,"  (act  ii.  sc.  1 ;)  a  clear  comment  (it 
would  have  been  said,  in  that  furious  time)  on  the  line  in  question. 


DEAMATIS    PERSOIT^. 


MEIf. 


Cato, Me.  Booth. 

Lucius,  a  Senator, Mr.  Keen. 

Sempronius,  a  Senator,        .        .         .        .  Mr.  Mills. 

JuBA,  Prince  of  Numidia,        ....  Mr.  "Wilks. 

SypHAX,  General  of  the  ISTumidians,    .        .  Ma.  Gibber. 

Fortius,  )  ....  Mr.  Powell. 

[  Sons  of  Cato,  ,,     -r, 

Marcus,  3  ....  Mr,  Eyan. 

Deoius,  Ambassador  from  Caesar,  .         .  Mr.  Bowman. 

Mutineers,  Guards,  <fec. 


WOMEN. 


Marcia,  Daughter  to  Cato, 
Lucia,  Daughter  to  Lucius, 


Mrs.  Oldfield 
Mrs.  Porter. 


Scene,  a  large  Hall  in  the  Governor's  Palace  of  Utica. 


PKOLOGUE  BY  MR.  POPE. 

SPOKEN  BY  ME.  WILKS. 

To  -wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art, 
To  raise  the  genius  and  to  mend  the  heart, 
To  make  mankind  in  conscious  virtue  bold, 
Live  o'er  each  scene,  and  be  what  they  behold : 
For  this  the  tragic  muse  first  trode  the  stage. 
Commanding  tears  to  stream  through  every  age  j 
Tyrants  no  more  their  savage  nature  kept. 
And  foes  to  vtrtue  wonder'd  how  they  wept. 
Our  author  shuns  by  vulgar  springs  to  move 
The  hero's  glory,  or  the  virgin's  love  ; 
In  pitying  love  we  but  our  weakness  show, 
And  wild  ambition  well  deserves  its  woe. 
Here  tears  shall  flow  from  a  more  generous  caus^ 
Such  tears  as  patriots  shed  for  dying  law^: 
He  bids  your  breasts  with  ancient  ardour  rise. 
And  calls  forth  Roman  drops  from  British  eyes. 
Virtue  confest  in  human  shape  he  draws, 
"What  Plato  thought,  and  godlike  Cato  was  : 
No  common  object  to  your  sight  displays. 
But  what  with  pleasure  heaven  itself  surveys  j 
A  brave  man  struggling  in  the  storms  of  fate, 
And  greatly  falling  with  a  falling  state  ! 
While  Cato  gives  his  little  senate  laws, 
What  bosom  beats  not  in  his  country's  cause  1 


^v 


390  DRAMAS. 

'"^  Marcus.     Thy  steady  temper,  Fortius/ 


Can  look  on  guilt,  rebellion,  fraud,  and  Caesar, 

In  the  calm  lights  of  mild  philosophy ; 

I'm  tortured  even  to  madness,  when  I  think 

On  the  proud  victor  :  every  time  he's  named 

Pharsalia  rises  to  my  view  — I  see 

Th'  insulting  tyrant,  prancing  o'er  the  field 

Strow'd  with  Rome's  citizens,  and  drench'd  in  slaughter, 

His  horse's  hoofs  wet  with  Patrician  blood ! 

Oh,  Fortius  !  is  there  not  some  chosen  curse. 

Some  hidden  thunder  in  the  stores  of  heaven. 

Red  with  uncommon  wrath,  to  blast  the  man, 

Who  owes  his  greatness  to  his  country's  ruin  ? 

Fortius.     Believe  me,  Marcus,  'tis  an  impious  greatness 
And  mixt  with  too  much  horror  to  be  envy'd : 
How  does  the  lustre  of  our  father's  actions, 
Through  the  dark  cloud  of  ills  that  cover  him, 
Break  out,  and  burn  with  more  triumphant  brightness  ! 
His  sufferings  shine,  and  spread  a  glory  round  him  ; 
Greatly  unfortunate,  he  fights  the  cause 
Of  honour,  virtue,  liberty,  and  Rome. 
His  sword  ne'er  fell  but  on  the  guilty  head  ; 
Oppression,  tyranny,  and  power  usurp'd, 
Draw  all  the  vengeance  of  his  arm  upon  'em. 

Marcus.     "Who  knows  not  this  ?  but  what  can  Cato  do 
Against  a  world,  a  base  degenerate  world, 
That  courts  the  yoke,  and  bows  the  neck  to  Caesar  ? 
Fent  up  in  Utica  he  vainly  forms 
A  poor  epitome  of  Roman  greatness. 


>  do 

i 


•  This  a  little  palliates  the  indecorum,  just  now  observed ;  and  may 
let  us  see,  that  the  poet  himself  was  aware  of  it  (so  exact  was  his  taste) ; 
but  it  does  not  wholly  excuse  it. 


(J  A  T  o .  39  I 

^      And,  cover'd  with  Numidian  guards,  directs 
A  feeble  army,  and  an  empty  senate, 
Kemnants  of  mighty  battles  fought  in  vain. 
By  heavens,  such  virtues,  join'd  with  such  success. 
Distract  my  very  soul :  our  father's  fortune 
Would  almost  tempt  us  to  renounce  his  precepts. 

Fortius.     Remember  what  our  father  oft  has  told  us  : 
The  ways  of  heaven  are  dark  and  intricate, 
Puzzled  in  mazes,  and  perplex'd  with  errors  : 
Our  understanding  traces  'em  in  vain. 
Lost  and  bewilder'd  in  the  fruitless  search  ; 
Nor  sees  with  how  much  art  the  windings  run, 
Nor  where  the  regular  confusion  ends. 

Marcus.     These  are  suggestions  of  a  mind  at  ease  : 
Oh  Fortius  !  didst  thou  taste  but  half  the  griefs 
That  wring  my  soul,  thou  couldst  not  talk  thus  coldly. 
Fassion  unpity'd,  and  successless  love, 
Flant  daggers  in  my  heart,^  and  aggravate 
My  other  griefs.     Were  but  my  Lucia-kind  ! — 

Fortius.     Thou  seest  not  that  thy  brother  is  thy  rival : 
But  I  must  hide  it,  for  I  know  thy  temper.  [Asidfi 

Now,  Marcus,  now,  thy  virtue's  on  the  proof: 
Put  forth  thy  utmost  strength,  work  every  nerve, 
And  call  up  all  thy  father  in  thy  soul : 
To  quell  the  tyrant  Love,  and  guard  thy  heart 
On  this  weak  side,  where  most  our  nature  fails. 
Would  be  a  conquest  worthy  Cato's  son. 

Marcus.     Fortius,  the  counsel  which  I  cannot  take, 
Instead  of  healing,  but  upbraids  my  weakness. 
Bid  me  for  honour  plunge  into  a  war 

'  A  strange  unnatural  phrase:  which  yet  hath  made  its  fortune  in 
modern  tragedy.  Besides,  if  these  words  have  any  meaning,  it  was  ridi- 
culous to  add  "  aggravate  my  other  griefs.'^ 


392 


DRAMAS 


Of  thickest  foes,  and  rush  on  certain  death 
Then  shalt  thou  see  that  Marcus  is  not  slow 
To  follow  glory,  and  confess  his  father. 
Love  is  not  to  be  reason'd  down,  or  lost 
In  high  ambition,  and  a  thirst  of  greatness  : 
'Tis  second  life,  it  grows  into  the  soul, 
Warms  every  vein,  and  beats  in  every  pulse, 
I  feel  it  here  :  my  resolution  melts — 

Fortius.     Behold  young  Juba,  the  Numidian  prince  I 
With  how  much  care  he  forms  himself  to  glory. 
And  breaks  the  fierceness  of  his  native  temper 
To  copy  out  our  father's  bright  example. 
He  loves  our  sister  Marcia,  greatly  loves  her, 
His  eyes,  his  looks,  his  actions  all  betray  it : 
But  stiirthe  smother'd  fondness  burns  within  him. 
When  most  it  swells,  and  labours  for  a  vent, 
The  sense  of  honour  and  desire  of  fame 
Drive  the  big  passion  back  into  his  heart. 
What !  shall  an  African,  shall  Juba's  heir 
Beproach  great  Cato's  son,  and  show  the  world 
A  virtue  wanting  in  a  Boman  soul  ? 

Marcus.    Fortius,  no  more  !  your  words  leave  sting 
hind  'em. 
Whene'er  did  Juba,  or  did  Fortius,  show 
A  virtue  that  has  cast  me  at  a  distance. 
And  thrown  me  out  in  the  pursuits  of  honour  ? 

Fortius.     Marcus,  I  know  thy  gen'rous  temper  well ; 
Fling  but  th'  appearance  of  dishonour  on  it. 
It  straight  takes  fire,  and  mounts  into  a  blaze. 

Marcus.     A  brother's  sufierings  claim  a  brother's  pity. 

Fortius.     Heaven  knows  I  pity  thee  :  behold  my  eyes 
"Even  whilst  I  speak — Do  they  not  swim  in  tears  ? 


d 


c  A  T  o .  393 

"Were  but  my  heart  as  naked  to  thy  view, 
Marcus  would  see  it  bleed  in  his  behalf. 

Marcus.     Why  then  dost  treat  me  with  rebukes,  instead 
Of  kind  condoling  cares,  and  friendly  sorrow  ? 
'      Fortius.     0  Marcus  !  did  I  know  the  way  to  ease 
Thy  troubled  heart,  and  mitigate  thy  pains, 
Marcus,  believe  me,  I  could  die  to  do  it. 

Marcus.     Thou  best  of  brothers,  and  thou  best  of  friends ! 
Pardon  a  weak  distemper'd  soul  that  swells 
With  sudden  gusts,  and  sinks  as  soon  in  calms. 
The  sport  of  passions  : — But  Sempronius  comes ; 
He  must  not  find  this  softness  hanging  on  me.     [Exit. 

SCENE   II.       - 
Sempronius,  Fortius. 

Sempronius.     Conspiracies  no  sooner  should  be  formed 
•     Than  executed.     What  means  Fortius  here  ? 
I  like  not  that  cold  youth.*     I  must  dissemble. 
And  speak  a  language  foreign  to  my  heart.  [Aside. 

Good  morrow.  Fortius !  let  us  once  embrace. 
Once  more  embrace ;  whilst  yet  we  both  are  free. 
To-morrow  should  we  thus  express  our  friendship, 
Each  might  receive  a  slave  into  his  arms : 
This  sun,  perhaps,  this  morning  sun's  the  last. 
That  e'er  shall  rise  on  Roman  liberty. 

Fortius.     My  father  has  this  morning  call'd  together 
To  this  poor  hall  his  little  Roman  senate, 
(The  leavings  of  Fharsalia)  to  consult 

■  Cold  youth.  Finely  observed.  Men  of  cold  passions  have  quick  eyes, 
and  are  no  fit  company  for  such  xucn  as  Sempronius  ;  whether  they  speak 
from  the  heart,  or  dissemble  ;  hence,  the  indignant  reproof  of  liis  passion,  and 
the  abrupt  departure  from  his  flatteries. 

VOL.   I. — 17* 


394  DRAMAS. 

If  yet  he  can  oppose  tlie  mighty  torrent 

That  bears  down  Rome,  and  all  her  gods,  before  it, 

Or  must  at  length  give  up  the  world  to  Caesar. 

Sempronius.     Not  all  the  pomp  and  majesty  of  Rome 
Can  raise  her  senate  more  than  Cato's  presence. 
His  virtues  render  our  assembly  awful, 
They  strike  with  something  like  religious  fear. 
And  make  even  Csesar  tremble  at  the  head 
Of  armies  flush'd  with  conquest :     0  my  Fortius ! 
Could  I  but  call  that  wondrous  man  my  father, 
Would  but  thy  sister  Marcia  be  propitious 
To  thy  friend's  vows  :  I  might  be  bless'd  indeed ! 

Fortius.     Alas  !  Sempronius,  would'st  thou  talk  of  love 
To  Marcia,  whilst  her  father's  life's  in  danger? 
Thou  might'st  as  well  court  the  pale  trembling  vestal, 
V  When  she  beholds  the  holy  flame  expiring. 

Sempronius.     The  more  I  see  the  wonders  of  thy  race, 
The  more  I'm  charm'd.     Thou  must  take  heed,  my  Fortkis 
The  world  has  all  its  eyes  on  Cato's  son. 
Thy  father's  merit  sets  thee  up  to  view. 
And  shows  thee  in  the  fairest  point  of  light, 
To  make  thy  virtues,  or  thy  faults,  conspicuous. 

Fortius.     Well  dost  thou  seem  to  check  my  ling'ring 
On  this  important  hour — I'll  straight  away, 
And  while  the  fathers  of  the  senate  meet 
In  close  debate  to  weigh  th'  events  of  war, 
I'll  animate  the  soldiers'  drooping  courage. 
With  love  of  freedom,  and  contempt  of  life  : 
I'll  thunder  in  their  ears  their  country's  cause, 
And  try  to  rouse  up  ^1  that's  Roman  in  'em. 

*  Wonderfully  exact,  both  in  the  sentiment,  and  expression. — The  ima- 
gery, toe,  is  in  character ;  the  speaker  being  a  person  of  the  purest  virtue, 
and  a  Koraan. 


ve 

I 


I 


c  A  T  o .  395 


'Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success, 
But  we'll  do  more,  Sempronius ;  we'll  deserve  it.  /      lExit. 
Sempronius,  solus.     Curse  on  tlie  stripling  !  how  he  apes 
his  sire  ? 
Ambitiously  sententious  ! — but  I  wonder 
Old  Syphax  comes, not;  his  Numidian  genius 
Is  well  disposed  to  mischief,  were  he  prompt 
And  eager  on  it ;  but  he  must  be  spurr'd, 
And  every  moment  quicken'd  to  the  course. 

Cato  has  us'd  me  ill :  he  has  refused  ^ 

His  daughter  Marcia  to  my  ardent  vows. 

Besides,  his  baffled  arms,  and  ruined  cause, 

Are  bars  to  my  ambition.     Caesar's  favour. 

That  show'rs  down  greatness  on  his  friends,  will  raise  me 

To  Home's  first  honours.     If  I  give  up  Cato, 

I  claim  in  my  reward  his  captive  daughter. 

But  Syphax  comes  ! — 


SCENE    III. 
Syphax,  Sempronius. 

Syphax.     Sempronius,  all  is  ready, 

I've  sounded  my  Numidians,  man  by  man. 

And  find  'em  ripe  for  a  revolt :  they  all 

Complain  aloud  of  Cato's  discipline. 

And  wait  but  the  command  to  change  their  master. 

Sempronius.     Believe  me,   Syphax,  there's  no   time   to 
waste ; 
Even  while  we  speak,  our  conqueror  comes  on, 
And  gathers  ground  upon  us  every  moment. 
Alas !  thou  know'st  not  Caesar's  active  soul, 
With  what  a  dreadful  course  he  rushes  on 


S96  DRAMAS. 

From  war  to  war  :  in  vain  has  nature  form'd 

Mountains  and  oceans  to  oppose  his  passage ; 

He  bounds  o'er  all,  victorious  in  hi§  march ; 

The  Alps  and  Pyreneans  sink  before  him, 

Through  winds  and  waves  and  storms  he  works  his  way, 

Impatient  for  the  battle ;  one  day  more 

Will  set  the  victor  thundering  at  our  gates. 

But  tell  me,  hast  thou  yet  drawn  o'er  young  Juba  ? 

That  still  would  recommend  thee  more  to  Caesar, 

And  challenge  better  terms. 

Syphax.     Alas  !  he's  lost, 
He's  lost,  Sempronius ;  all  his  thoughts  are  full 
Of  Cato's  virtues  ; — but  I'll  try  once  more 
(For  every  instant  I  expect  him  here) 
If  yet  I  can  subdue  those  stubborn  principles 
Of  faith,  of  honour,  and  I  know  not  what, 
That  have  corrupted  his  Numidian  temper, 
And  struck  th'  infection  into  all  his  soul. 

Sempronius.     Be  sure  to  press  upon  him  every  motive, 
Juba's  surrender,  since  his  father's  death, 
Would  give  up  Afric  into  Caesar's  hands,  ^ 

And  make  him  lord  of  half  the  burning  zone. 

Syphax.     But  is  it  true,  Sempronius,  that  your  senate 
Is  call'd  together  ?     Gods  !  thou  must  be  cautious ! 
Cato  has  piercing  eyes,  and  will  discern 
Our  frauds,  unless  they're  cover'd  thick  with  art. 

Sempronius.     Let  me  alone,  good  Syphax,  I'll  conceal 
My  thoughts  in  passion  *  ('tis  the  surest  way ;) 

•  When  a  plain  man,  like  Sempronius,  turns  villain,  he  loves  to  flatter 
himself,  and  to  be  flattered  by  others,  into  an  opinion  of  his  own  cunning: 
hence  tiie  boast — '■^ Let  v:e  alone,  good  Syphax"  &c.,  and  hence  too,  the 
ftdroit  answer  to  that  boast — 

"  In  troth  thou'rt  able  to  instruct  grev  hairs, 
An<i  te&ih  the  wily  African  deceit'' 


c  A  T  o .  397 

I'll  bellow  out  for  Rome  and  for  my  country, 

And  mouth  at  Caesar  'till  1  shake  the  senate. 

Your  cold  hypocrisy's  a  stale  device, 

A  worn-out  trick :  would'st  thou  be  thought  in  earnest  ? 

Clothe  thy  feign'd  zeal  in  rage,  in  fire,  in  fury ! 

Syphax.     In  troth,  thou'rt  able  to  instruct  grey  hairs, 

And  teach  the  wily  African  deceit ! 
-     Sempronius.    Once  more,  be  sure  to  try  thy  skill  on  Juba. 

Meanwhile  I'll  hasten  to  my  Roman  soldiers, 

Inflame  the  mutiny,  and  underhand 

Blow  up  their  discontents,  till  they  break  out 

Unlook'd  for,  and  discharge  themselves  on  Cato. 

Remember,  Syphax,  we  must  work  in  haste : 
fO  think  what  anxious  moments  pass  between 

The  birth  of  plots,  and  their  last  fatal  periods, 
^h  !  'tis  a  dreadful  interval  of  time, 

Fill'd  up  with  horror  all,  and  big  with  death  ! 

Destruction  hangs  on  every  word  we  speak, 

On  every  thought,  till  the  concluding  stroke 

Determines  all,  and  closes  our  design^y  [Exit. 

Syphax  solus.     I'll  try  if  yet  I  can  reduce  to  reason 

Bat  something  more  must  be  observed,  to  let  us  into  the  artifice  of  the 
following  scenes.  The  vices  of  men  are  shaped  and  modified  by  their 
general  character.  The  character  of  a  Roman  was  thsit  of  virtue  ;  in  which 
term,  the  idea  of  courage  and  patriotism  are  combined  :  when  such  a  man 
would  dissemble,  he  had  but  one  way  of  doing  it,  which  is,  to  run  those 
qualities  into  the  extreme  ;  or,  in  the  poet's  fine  expression, 
"  To  be  virtuous,  even  to  madness." 

The  African,  on  the  other  hand,  being  by  complexion,  a  knave,  his  dis- 
simulation is  of  another  cast.  It  consists  in  a  certain  pliancy  of  temper 
and  a  dextrous  application  of  himself  to  all  humours  and  occasions ;  in  a 
studious  endeavour,  in  short,  to  conceal  the  proper  vice  of  his  nature,  as 
tlie  aim  of  a  better  man  would  be,  to  outraire  the  virtue  of  his.  Hence 
Sempronius  is  always  in  a  storm  of  zeal ;  while  Syphax  assumes  as  many 
shapes  as  the  moment  calls  for,  or  his  Numidian  genius  suggests.  Even 
the  catastrophe  of  both  is  suited  to  this  difference  of  character ;  Syphax 
sneaks  out  of  the  conspiracy,  and  would  escape  death,  if  he  could :  Sem- 
pronius provokes  his  fate ;  and  perishes  in  a  rant  of  bravery,  as  he  had  live^ 


398 


DRAMAS. 


This  head-strong  youth,  and  make  him  spurn  at  Cato. 
The  time  is  short,  Caesar  comes  rushing  on  us — 
But  hold  !  young  Juba  sees  me,  and  approaches. 


SCENE    IV. 
Juba,  Syphax. 

Juba.     Syphax,  I  joy  to  meet  thee  thus  alone, 
I  have  observed  of  late  thy  looks  are  fallen, 
O'ercast  with  gloomy  cares,  and  discontent ; 
Then  tell  me,  Syphax,  I  conjure  thee,  tell  me. 
What  are  the  thoughts  that  knit  thy  brow  in  frowns, 
And  turn  thine  eye  thus  coldly  on  thy  prince  ? 

Syphax.     'Tis  not  my  talent  to  conceal  my  thoughts. 
Or  carry  smiles  and  sunshine  in  my  face. 
When  discontent  sits  heavy  at  my  heart. 
I  have  not  yet  so  much  the  Roman  in  me. 

Juba.     Why  dost  thou  cast  out  such  ungenerous  terms 
Against  the  lords  and  sov'reigns  of  the  world  ? 
Dost  thou  not  see  mankind  fall  down  before  them, 
And  own  iSie  force  of  their  superior  virtue  ? 
Is  there  a  nation  in  the  wilds  of  Afric, 
Amidst  our  barren  rocks,  and  burning  sands. 
That  does  not  tremble  at  the  Roman  name  ? 

Syphax.    Gods  !  where's  the  worth  that  sets  this  people  up 
Above  your  own  Numidia's  tawny  sons  ! 
Do  they  with  tougher  sinews  bend  the  bow  ? 
Or  flies  the  javelin  swifter  to  its  mark, 
Launoh'd  from  the  vigour  of  a  Roman  arm  ? 
Who  like  our  active  African  instructs 
The  fiery  steed,  and  trains  him  to  his  hand  ? 
Or  guides  in  troops  th'  embattled  elephant, 


c  A  T  o .  399 

Load  en  with  war  ?  these,  these  are  arts,  my  prince^ 
In  which  your  Zarna  does  not  stoop  to  Rome. 

JuBA.     These  all  are  virtues  of  a  meaner  rank, 
Perfections  that  are  placed  in  bones  and  nerves. 
A  Roman  soul  is  bent  on  higher  views  :  >  /' 

To  civilize  the  rude  unpolish'd  world. 
And  lay  it  under  the  restraint  of  laws  ; 
To  make  man  mild,  and  sociable  to  man ; 
To  cultivate  the  wild  licentious  savage 
"With  wisdom,  discipline,  and  liberal  arts ;  I 

Th'  embellishments  of  life  :  virtues  like  these  j 

Make  human  nature  shine,  reform  the  soul,  \ 

And  break  our  fierce  barbarians  into  men. 

Syphax.     Patience,  kind  heavens ! — excuse  an  old  man's 
warmth. 
What  are  these  wondrous  civilizing  arts. 
This  Roman  polish,  and  this  smooth  behaviour. 
That  render  man  thus  tractable  and  tame  ? 
Are  they  not  only  to  disguise  our  passions. 
To  set  our  looks  at  variance  with  our  thoughts, 
To  check  the  starts  and  sallies  of  the  soul. 
And  break  off  all  its  commerce  with  the  tongue  ; 
In  short,  to  change  us  into  other  creatures. 
Than  what  our  nature  and  the  gods  design'd  us  ? 

JuBA.     To  strike  thee  dumb  :  turn  up  thy  eyes  to  Cato  I 
There  may'st  thou  see  to  what  a  godlike  height 
The  Roman  virtues  lift  up  mortal  man. 
While  good,  and  just,  and  anxious  for  his  friends, 
He's  still  severely  bent  against  himself; 
Renouncing  sleep,  and  rest,  and  food,  and  ease. 
He  strives  with  thirst  and  hunger,  toil  and  heat ; 
And  when  his  fortune  sets  before  him  all 


400 


DRAMAS 


\ 


The  pomps  and  pleasures  that  his  soul  can  wish, 

His  rigid  virtue  will  accept  of  none. 
yT     Syphax.     Believe  me,  prince,  there's  not  an  African 

That  traverses  our  vast  Numidian  deserts 

In  quest  of  prey,  and  lives  upon  his  bow, 

But  better  practises  these  boasted  virtues. 

Coarse  are  his  meals,  the  fortune  of  the  chase. 

Amidst  the  running  stream  he  slakes  his  thirst, 

Toils  all  the  day,  and  at  th'  approach  of  night 

On  the  first  friendly  bank  he  throws  him  down. 

Or  rests  his  head  upon  a  rock  till  morn : 

Then  rises  fresh,  pursues  his  wonted  game ; 
And  if  the  following  day  he  chance  to  find 
A  new  repast,  or  an  untasted  spring. 
Blesses  his  stars,  and  thinks  it  luxury.    J 

♦Tuba.     Thy  prejudices,  Syphax,  won't  discern 
What  virtues  grow  from  ignorance  and  choice, 
Nor  how  the  hero  diflfers  from  the  brute. 
But  grant  that  others  could  with  equal  glory 
Look  down  on  pleasures,  and  the  baits  of  sense ; 
Where  shall  we  find  the  man  that  bears  affliction. 
Great  and  majestic  in  his  griefs,  like  Cato  ? 
Heavens  !  with  what  strength,  what  steadiness  of  mind, 
He  triumphs  in  the  midst  of  all  his  sufferings  ! 
How  does  he  rise  against  a  load  of  woes. 
And  thank  the  gods  that  throw  the  weight  upon  him  ! 

Syphax.     'Tis  pride,  rank  pride,  and  haughtiness  of  soul: 
I  think  the  Romans  call  it  Stoicism. 
Had  not  your  royal  father  thought  so  highly 
Of  Roman  virtue,  and  of  Cato's  cause. 
He  had  not  fallen  by  a  slave's  hand,  inglorious  : 
Nor  would  his  slaughter'd  army  now  have  lain 


401 


On  Afric's  sands,  disfigur'd  with  their  wounds, 
To  gorge  the  wolves  and  vultures  of  Numidla. 

JuBA.     Why  dost  thou  call  my  sorrows  up  afresh  ? 
My  father's  name  brings  tears  into  my  eyes. 

Syphax.     Oh  !  that  you'd  profit  by  your  father's  ills  ! 

JuBA.     What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 

Syphax.     Abandon  Cato. 

JuBA.     Syphax,  I  should  be  more  than  twice  ^n  orphan 
By  such  a  loss. 

Syphax.     Ay,  there's  the  tie  that  binds  you! 
You  long  to  call  him  father.     Marcia's  charms 
Work  in  your  heart  unseen,  and  plead  for  Cato. 
No  wonder  you  are  deaf  to  all  I  say. 

JuBA.     Syphax,  your  zeal  becomes  importunate ; 
I've  hitherto  permitted  it  to  rave. 
And  talk  at  large ;  but  learn  to  keep  it  in, 
Lest  it  should  take  more  freedom  than  I'll  give  it. 

Syphax.     Sir,  your  great  father  never  used  me  thus. 
Alas !  he's  dead  !  but  can  you  e'er  forget 
The  tender  sorrows,  and  the  pangs  of  nature, 
The  fond  embraces,  and  repeated  blessings. 
Which  you  drew  from  him  in  your  last  farewel  ? 
Still  must  I  cherish  the  dear,  sad  remembrance, 
At  once  to  torture  and  to  please  my  soul. 
The  good  old  king  at  parting  wrung  my  hand, 
(His  eyes  brim-full  of  tears)  then  sighing  cry'd, 
Prithee  be  careful  of  my  son  1 — his  grief 
Swell'd  up  so  high,  he  could  not  utter  more. 

JuBA.     Alas  !  thy  story  melts  away  my  soul. 
That  best  of  fathers  !  how  shall  I  discharge 
The  gratitude  and  duty  which  I  owe  him  ! 

Syphax.     By  laying  up  his  counsels  in  your  heart. 


I 


402  DRAMAS. 

JuBA.     His  counsels  bade  me  yield  to  thy  directions : 
Then,  Syphax,  chide  me  in  severest  terms, 
Vent  all  thy  passion,  and  I'll  stand  its  shock, 
Calm  and  unruflBled  as  a  summer-sea. 
When  not  a  breath  of  wind  flies  o'er  its  surface. 

Syphax.     Alas  !  my  prince,  I'd  guide  you  to  your  safety. 

JuBA.     I  do  believe  thou  wouldst:  but  tell  me  how?     Sjl 

Syphax.     Fly  from  the  fate  that  follows  Caesar's  foes. 

JuBA.     My  father  scorn'd  to  do  it. 

Syphax.     And  therefore  died. 

JuBA.     Better  to  die  ten  thousand  thousand  deaths. 
Than  wound  my  honour. 

Syphax.     Rather  say  your  love. 

JuBA.     Syphax,  I've  promis'd  to  preserve  my  temper. 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  confess  a  flame 
I  long  have  stifled,  and  would  fain  conceal  ? 

Syphax.     Believe  me,  prince,  tho'  hard  to  conquer  love, 
'Tis  easy  to  divert  and  break  its  force : 
Absence  might  cure  it,  or  a  second  mistress 
Light  up  another  flame,  and  put  out  this. 
The  glowing  dames  of  Zama's  royal  court 
Have  faces  flusht  with  more  exalted  charms  ; 
The  sun,  that  rolls  his  chariot  o'er  their  heads 
Works  up  more  fire  and  colour  in  their  cheeks  : 
Were  you  with  these,  my  prince,  you'd  soon  forget 
The  pale,  unripen'd  beauties  of  the  north. 
/  JuBA.     'Tis  not  a  set  of  features,  or  complexion, 
'  The  tincture  of  a  skin,  that  I  admire. 
Beauty  soon  grows  familiar  to  the  lover. 
Fades  in  his  eye,  and  palls  upon  the  sense. 
The  virtuous  Marcia  tow'rs  above  her  sex : 
True,  she  is  fair,  (oh  how  divinely  fair!) 


C  A  T  o  .  403 

But  stil¥  the  lovely  maid  improves  her  charms 
With  inward  greatness,  unaffected  wisdom, 
And  sanctity  of  manners.     Cato's  soul 
Shines  out  in  every  thing  she  acts  or  speaks, 
While  winning  mildness  and  attractive  smiles 
Dwell  in  her  looks,  and  with  becoming  grace 
Soften  the  rigour  of  her  father's  virtues. 

Syphax.    How  does  your  tongue  grow  wanton  in  her  praise ! 
But  on  my  knees  I  beg  you  would  consider — 

JuBA.     Hah  !  Syphax,  is't  not  she  ? — she  moves  this  way  : 
And  with  her  Lucia,  Lucius's  fair  daughter. 
My  heart  beats  thick — I  prithee,  Syphax,  leave  me. 

Syphax.     Ten  thousand  curses  fasten  on  'em  both  ! 
Now  will  this  woman,  with  a  single  glance, 
Undo  what  I've  been  labouring  all  this  while.  [Exit. 


SCENE   v.* 
JuBA,   Marcia,    Lucia. 

JuBA.     Hail^charming  maid  !  how  does  thy  beauty  smooth 
The  face  of  war,  and  make  even  horror  smile  ! 
At  sight  of  thee  my  heart  shakes  off  its  sorrows ; 
I  feel  a  dawn  of  joy  break  in  upon  me, 
And  for  a  while  forget  th'  approach  of  Caesar. 

Marcia.     I  should  be  griev'd,  young  prince,  to  think  my 
presence 
Unbent  your  thoughts,  and  slacken'd  'em  to  arms, 

»The  love-scenes  in  Cato,  are  beautiful  in  tlieraselves,  and  the  play 
could  not  have  made  its  fortune  without  them.  But  "  Non  erat  hie  locus," 
— yet  they  are  not  so  much  out  of  place  here,  as  they  might  have  been 
elsewhere  ;  for  they  serve,  in  some  degree,  to  cover  the  defect  of  the  fable, 
which  is  very  undramatic ;  and  could,  I  think,  by  no  management,  be 
worked  up  to  a  due  degree  of  tragic  distress. 
) 


404  DRAMAS. 

While,  warm  with  slaughter,  our  victorious  foe 
Threatens  aloud,  and  calls  you  to  the  field. 

JuBA.     0  Marcia,  let  me  hope  thy  kind  concerns 
And  gentle  wishes  follow  me  to  battle  ! 
The  thought  will  give  new  vigour  to  my  arm. 
Add  strength  and  weight  to  my  descending  sword, 
And  drive  it  in  a  tempest  on  the  foe. 

Marcia.     My  prayers  and  wishes  always  shall  attend 
The  friends  of  Rome,  the  glorious  cause  of  virtue, 
And  men  approv'd  of  by  the  gods  and  Cato. 

JuBA.     That  Juba  may  deserve  thy  pious  cares, 
I'll  gaze  for  ever  on  thy  godlike  father. 
Transplanting,  one  by  one,  into  my  life, 
His  bright  perfections,  till  I  shine  like  him. 

Marcia.  My  father  never,  at  a  time  like  this, 
Would  lay  out  his  great  soul  in  words,  and  waste 
Such  precious  moments. 

Juba.  Thy  reproofs  are  just, 

Thou  virtuous  maid;  I'll  hasten  to  my  troops 
And  fire  their  languid  souls  with  Cato's  virtue. 
If  e'er  I  lead  them  to  the  field,  when  all 
'  The  war  shall  stand  rang'd  in  its  just  array, 
And  dreadful  pomp  :  then  will  I  think  on  thee  I 
0  lovely  maid,  then  will  I  think  on  thee  ! 
And,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts,  remember 
What  glorious  deeds  should  grace  the  man,  who  hopes 
For  Marcia's  love.  [Exii. 


I 


C  A  T  o  405 

SCENE    VT. 
Lucia,    Marcia. 

Lucia.  Marcia,  you're  too  severe  : 

flow  could  you  chide  the  young  good-natured  prince, 
And  drive  him,  from  you  with  so  stern  an  air; 
A  prince  that  loves  and  doats  on  you  to  death  ? 

Marcia.    'Tis  therefore,  Lucia,  that  I  chide  him  from  me 
His  air,  his  voice,  his  looks,  and  honest  soul 
Speak  all  so  movingly  in  his  behalf, 
I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  hear  him  talk. 

Lucia.     Why  will  you  fight  against  so  sweet  a  passion, 
And  steel  your  heart  to  such  a  world  of  charms  ? 

Marcia.     How,  Lucia  !  would'st  thou  have  me  sink  away 
In  pleasing  dreams,  and  lose  myself  in  love, 
When  every  moment  Gate's  life's  at  stake  ? 
Caesar  comes  arm'd  with  terror  and  revenge, 
And  aims  his  thunder  at  my  father's  head : 
Should  not  the  sad  occasion  swallow  up 
My  other  cares,  and  draw  them  all  into  it  ? 

Lucia.     Why  have  »ot  I  this  constancy  of  mind, 
Who  have  so  many  griefs  to  try  its  force  ? 
Sure,  nature  form'd  me  of  her  softest  mould, 
Enfeebled  all  my  soul  with  tender  passions. 
And  sunk  me  even  below  my  own  weak  sex : 
Pity  and  love,  by  turns,  oppress  my  heart. 

Marcia.     Lucia,  disburthen  all  thy  cares  on  me, 
And  let  me  share  thy  most  retired  distress ; 
Tell  me  who  raises  up  this  conflict  in  thee  ? 

Lucia.     I  need  not  blush  to  name  them,  when  I  i^ell  thee 
They're  Marcia's  brothers,  and  the  sons  of  Cato. 


I 


406  *  DRAMAS. 


Marcia.     They  both  behold  thee  with  their  sister's  ey6o . 
And  often  have  revealed  their  passion  to  me. 
But  tell  me  whose  address  thou  favour'st  most : 
I  long  to  know,  and  yet  I  dread  to  hear  it. 

Lucia.     Which  is  it  Marcia  wishes  for  ? 

Marcia.  For  neither — 

And  yet  for  both — the  youths  have  equal  share 
In  Marcia's  wishes,  and  divide  their  sister : 
But  tell  me,  which  of  them  is  Lucia's  choice  ? 

Lucia.     Marcia,  they  both  are  high  in  my  esteem, 
But  in  my  love — why  wilt  thou  make  me  name  him  ? 
Thou  know'st  it  is  a  blind  and  foolish  passion, 
Pleas'd  and  disgusted  with  it  knows  not  what — 

Marcia.     0  Lucia,  I'm  perplex'd,  0  tell  me  which 
I  must  hereafter  call  my  happy  brother  ? 

Lucia.    Suppose  'twere  Fortius,  could  you  blame  my  choice  ? 
— 0  Fortius,  thou  hast  stol'n  away  my  soul ! 
With  what  a  graceful  tenderness  he  loves ! 
And  breathes  the  softest,  the  sincerest  vows  ! 
Complacency,  and  truth,  and  manly  sweetness 
Dwell  ever  on  his  tongue,  and  smooth  his  thoughts. 
Marcus  is  over  warm,  his  fond  complaints 
Have  so  much  earnestness  and  passion  in  them, 
I  hear  him  with  a  secret  kind  of  horror. 
And  tremble  at  his  vehemence  of  temper. 

Marcia.     Alas,  poor  youth  !   how  canst  thou  throw  him 
from  thee  ? 
Lucia,  thou  know'st  not  half  the  love  he  bears  thee  ; 
Whene'er  he  speaks  of  thee,  his  heart's  in  iBames, 
He  sends  out  all  his  soul  in  every  word. 
And  thinks,  and  talks,  and  looks  like  one  transported. 
Unhappy  youth  !  how  will  thy  coldness  raise 


CATO.  407 

Tempests  and  storms  in  his  afflicted  bosom  ! 
I  dread  the  consequence. 

Lucia.     You  seem  to  plead 
Against  your  brother  Fortius. 

Marcia.     Heaven  forbid ! 
Had  Fortius  been  the  unsuccessful  lover, 
The  same  compassion  would  have  fall'n  on  him. 

Lucia.     "Was  ever  virgin  love  distress'd  like  mine  I 
Fortius  himself  oft  falls  in  tears  before  me,  * 
As  if  he  mourn'd  his  rival's  ill  success. 
Then  bids  me  hide  the  motions  of  my  heart, 
Nor  show  which  way  it  turns.     So  much  he  fears 
"^  The  sad  effects  that  it  would  have  on  Marcus. 

Marcia.     He  knows  too  well  how  easily  he's  fir^^d, 
And  would  not  plunge  his  brother  in  despair, 
But  waits  for  happier  times,  and  kinder  moments, 

Lucia.     Alas  !  too  late  I  find  myself  involved 
In  endless  griefs,  and  labyrinths  of  woe. 
Born  to  afflict  my  Marcia's  family, 
And  sow  dissension  in  the  hearts  of  brothers. 
Tormenting  thought !  it  cuts  into  my  soul. 

Marcia.     Let  us  not,  Lucia,  aggravate  our  sorrows. 
But  to  the  gods  permit  th'  event  of  things.  / 

Our  lives,  discolour'd  with  our  present  woes. 
May  still  grow  white,  and  smile  with  happier  hours. 

«    So  the  pure  limpid  stream,''  when  foul  with  stains 
Of  rushing  torrents  and  descending  rains, 

•  Falls  in  tears.     It  should  be  "  falls  into  tears,"  he  might  hav«  said, 
"  Oft  Portiua  ielf  falls  into  tears  before  me." 

*•  So  the  pure  limpid  stream.  A  beautiful  simile,  in  the  mouth  of  a  lady, 
and  the  most  natural  that  could  be,  in  the  mouth  of  a  Roman  ladv,  who 
had  frequent  opportunities  of  seeing  the  yellow  Tiber,  as  it  wa*  -called, 
contract,  and  dischai-ge  its  colour. 


408  DRAMAS. 

Works  itself  clear,  and  as  it  runs,  refines  ; 

Till,  by  degrees,  tlie  floating  mirror  shines, 

Reflects  each  flow'r  that  on  the  border  grows, 

And  a  new  heaven  in  its  fair  bosom  shows.  lExeunt. 


ACT  II. 
SCENE  !.• 

TTie  Senate. 

Sempronius.     Rome  still  survives  in  this  assembled  sen- 
ate ! 
Let  us  remember  we  are  Cato's  friends. 
And  act  like  men  who  claim  that  glorious  title. 

Lucius.     Cato  will  soon  be  here,  and  open  to  us 
Th'  occasion  of  our  meeting.     Hark !  he  comes  ! 

[A  sound  of  trwi 
May  all  the  guardian  gods  of  Rome  direct  him ! 

Enter  Cato. 

Cato.     Fathers,  we  once  again  are  met  in  council 
Caesar's  approach  has  summon'd  us  together, 
And  Rome  attends  her  fate  from  our  resolves  : 
How  shall  we  treat  this  bold  aspiring  man  ? 

That  no  grace  might  be  wanting,  we  have  it  introduced  by  a  metaphoi 
taken  from  this  circumstance : 

"  Our  lives  discoloured.'''' 

I  question  if  there  be  another  instance  of  so  consummate  art,  and  taste,  In 
any  writer. 

*  Before  the  author  wrote  this  and  the  following  scene,  he  had  warmed 
his  patriotism,  as  well  as  imagination,  with  the  Philippics  of  Cicero. 


C  A  T  o .  409 

Success  still  follows  him,  and  backs  his  crimes ; 
Pharsalia  gave  him  Rome  ;  Egypt  has  since 
Receiv'd  his  yoke,  and  the  whole  Nile  is  Caesar's. 
Why  should  I  mention  Juba's  overthrow, 
And  Scipio's  death  ?     Numidia's  burning  sands 
Still  smoke  with  blood.     'Tis  time  we  should  decree 
What  course  ta  take.     Our  foe  advances  on  us, 
And  envies  us  even  Libya's  sultry  deserts. 
Fathers,  pronounce  your  thoughts,  are  they  still  fixt. 
To  hold  it  out,  and  fight  it  to  the  last  ? 
Or  are  your  hearts  subdu'd  at  length,  and  wrought 
By  time  and  ill  success  to  a  submission  ? 
Sempronius,  speak. 

Sempronius.     My  voice  is  still  for  war. 
Gods,  can  a  Roman  senate  long  debate 
Which  of  the  two  to  chuse,  slavery  or  death ! 
No,  let  us  rise  at  once,  gird  on  our  swords. 
And,  at  the  head  of  our  remaining  troops. 
Attack  the  foe,  break  through  the  thick  array 
Of  his  thronged  legions,  and  charge  home  upon  him. 
Perhaps  some  arm,  more  lucky  than  the  rest, 
May  reach  his  heart,  and  free  the  world  from  bondage. 
Rise,  fathers,  rise !  'tis  Rome  demands  y5ur  help  ; 
Rise,  and  revenge  her  slaughter'd  citizens,  - 
Or  share  their  fate  !  the  corps  of  half  her  senate 
Manure  the  fields  of  Thessaly,  while  we 
Sit  here,  deliberating  in  cold  debates. 
If  we  should  sacrifice  our  lives  to  honour. 
Or  wear  them  out  in  servitude  and  chains. 
Rouse  up,  for  shame  !  our  brothers  of  Pharsalia 
Point  at  their  wounds,  and  cry  aloud — To  battle  1 

VOL.   I. — 18 


410 


DRAMAS 


Grreat  Pompey's  shade  complains  that  we  are  slow, 
And  Scipio's  ghost  walks  unrevenged  amongst  us  I 

Cato.     Let  not  a  torrent  of  impetuous  zeal 
Transport  thee  thus  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason : 
/True  fortitude  is  seen  in  great  exploits 

That  justice  warrants,  and  that  wisdom  guides, 
All  else  is  towering  phrenzy  and  distraction. 
Are  not  the  lives  of  those,  who  draw  the  sword 
In  Rome's  defence,  intrusted  to  our  care  ? 
Should  we  thus  lead  them  to  a  field  of  slaughter, 
Might  not  th'  impartial  world  with  reason  say 
We  lavish'd  at  our  death  the  blood  of  thousands, 
To  grace  our  fall,  and  make  our  ruin  glorious  ? 
Lucius,  we  next  would  know  wjiat's  your  opinion. 

Lucius.      My  thoughts,  I  must  confess,  are  turn'd  on 
peace. 
Already  have  our  quarrels  fill'd  the  world 
With  widows  and  with  orphans :  Scythia  mourns 
Our  guilty  wars,  and  earth's  remotest  regions 
Lie  half  unpeopled  by  the  feuds  of  Rome : 
'Tis  time  to  sheath  the  sword,  and  spare  mankind. 
It  is  not  Cgesar,  but  the  gods,  my  fathers, 
The  gods  decide  against  us,  and  repel 
Our  vain  attempts.     To  urge  the  foe  to  battle, 
(Prompted  by  blind  revenge  and  wild  despair) 
Were  to  refuse  th'  awards  of  Providence, 
And  not  to  rest  in  heaven's  determination. 
Already  have  we  shown  our  love  to  Rome, 
Now  let  us  show  submission  to  the  gods. 
We  took  up  arms,  not  to  revenge  ourselves, 
But  free  the  common-wealth  ;  when  this  end  fails, 
Arms  have  no  further  use  :  our  country's  cause. 


CATO.  411 

That  drew  our  swords,  now  wrests  'em  from  our  hands, 

And  bids  us  not  delight  in  Roman  blood, 

Unprofitably  shed ;  what  men  could  do 

Is  done  already :  Heaven  and  earth  will  witness, 

If  Rome  must  fall,  that  we  are  innocent. 

Sempronius.     This  smooth  discourse  and  mild  behavioul 
oft 

Conceal  a  traitor — something  whispers  me 

All  is  not  right — Cato,  beware  of  Lucius.      [Aside  to  Cato 
^      Cato.     Let  us  appear  nor  rash  nor  diffident :       / 

Immoderate  valour  swells  into  a  fault,  / 

And  fear,  admitted  into  public  councils, 

Betrays  like  treason.     Let  us  shun  'em  both. 
,      Fathers,  I  cannot  see  that  our  affairs 

Are  grown  thus  desperate.     We  have  bulwarks  round  us ; 

Within  our  walls  are  troops  inured  to  toil 

In  Afric's  heat,  and  season'd  to  the  sun ; 

Numidia's  spacious  kingdom  lies  behind  us, 

Ready  to  rise  at  its  young  prince's  call. 

While  there  is  hope,  do  not  distrust  the  gods  ; 

But  wait  at  least  till  Caesar's  near  approach 

Force  us  to  yield.    .'Twill  nev'^r  be  too  late 

To  sue  for  chains  and  own  a  conqueror. 

Why  should  Rome  fall  a  moment  ere  her  time  ? 
/No,  let  us  draw  her  term  of  freedom  out 

In  its  full  length,  and  spin  it  to  the  last,  . 

So  shall  we  gain  still  one  day's  liberty  • 

.  And  let  me  perish,  but  in  Cato's  judgment^ 


A  day,  an  hour,  of  virtuous  liberty. 
Is  worth  a  whole  eternity  in  bondage. 


\' 


412 


DRAMAS 


Enter  Marcus. 


^ 


Marcus.     Fathers,  this  moment,  as  I  watch'd  the  gates 
Lodged  on  my  post,  a  herald  is  arrived 
From  Caesar's  camp,  and  with  him  comes  old  Decius, 
The  Roman  knight ;  he  carries  in  his  looks 
Impatience,  and  demands  to  speak  with  Cato. 

Cato.     By  your  permission,  fathers,  bid  him  enter. 

\_Exit  Marcus, 
Decius  was  once  my  friend,  but  other  prospects 
Have  loosed  those  ties,  and  bound  him  fast  to  Csesar. 
His  message  may  determine  our  resolves. 


I 


SCENE   II. 
Decius,  Cato,  Etc. 


^ 


Decius.     Caesar  sends  health  to  Cato. —  • 

Cato.     Could  he  send  it  '        ■ 

To  Cato's  slaughter'd  friends,  it  would  be  welcome. 
Are  not  your  orders  to  address  the  senate  ? 

Decius.     My  business  is  with  Cato  :  Caesar  sees 
The  straits  to  which  you're  driven  ;  and,  as  he  knows 
Cato's  high  worth,  is  anxious  for  your  life. 

Cato.     My  life  is  grafted  on  the  fate  of  Rome  : 
Would  he  save  Cato,  bid  him  spare  his  country. 
Tell  your  dictator  this  ;  and  tell  him,  Cato 
Disdains  a  life  which  he  has  power  to  offer. 

Decius.    -Rome  and  her  senators  submit  to  Caesar ; 
Her  generals  and  her  consuls  are  no  more. 
Who  check'd  his  conquests,  and  denied  his  triumphs. 
Why  will  not  Cato  be  this  Caesar's  friend  ? 

Cato.     Those  very  reasons  thou  hast  urged  forbid  it 


CATO.  41S 

Decius.     Cato,  I've  orders  to  expostulate 
And  reason  with  you  as  from  friend  to  friend : 
Think  on  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  your  head, 
And  threatens  every  hour  to  burst  upon  it ; 
Still  may  you  stand  high  in  your  country's  honours, 
Do  but  comply,  and  make  your  peace  with  Caesar. 
Rome  will  rejoice,  and  cast  its  eyes  on  Cato, 
As  on  the  second  of  mankind. 

Cato.  No  more ! 

I  must  not  think  of  life  on  such  conditions. 

Decius.     Caesar  is  well  acquainted  with  your  virtues, 
And  therefore  sets  this  value  on  your  life  : 
Let  him  but  know  the  price  of  Cato's  friendship. 
And  name  your  terms. 

Cato.  Bid  him  disband  his  legions, 

Restore  the  commonwealth  to  liberty,  "^ 

Submit  his  actions  to  the  public  censure,  -^y 

And  stand  the  judgment  of  a  Roman  senate.      <L 
Bid  him  do  this,  and  Cato  is  his  friend. 

Decius.     Cato,  the  world  talks  loudly  of  your  wisdom— 

Cato.     Nay  more,  tho'  Cato's  voice  was  ne'er  employ'd 
To  clear  the  guilty,  and  to  varnish  crimes, 
Myself  will  mount  the  rostrum  in  his  favour, 
And  strive  to  gain  his  pardon  from  the  people. 

Decius.     A  style  like  this  becomes  a  conqueror. 

Cato.     Decius,  a  style  like  this  becomes  a  Roman. 

Decius.     What  is  a  Roman,  that  is  Caesar's  foe  ? 

Cato.     Greater  than  Caesar  :  he's  a  friend  to  virtue. 

Decius.     Consider,  Cato,  you're  in  Utica, 
And  at  the  head  of  your  own  little  senate ; 
You  don't  now  thunder  in  the  Capitol, 
With  all  the  mouths  of  Rome  to  second  you. 


414  DRAMAS. 

Cato.     Let  liim  consider  that,  wlio  drives  us  liitlie 
'Tis  Caesar's  sword  has  made  Rome's  senate  little, 
And  thinn'd  its  ranks.     Alas !  thy  dazzled  eye 
Beholds  this  man  in  a  false  glaring  light. 
Which  conquest  and  success  have  thrown  upon  him  ; 
Didst  thou  but  view  him  right,  thou'dst  see  him  black 
With  murder,  treason,  sacrilege,  and  crimes 
That  strike  my  soul  with  horror  but  to  name  'em. 
I  know  thou  look'st  on  me,  as  on  a  wretch 
Beset  with  ills,  and  cover'd  with  misfortunes  ; 
But,  by  the  gods  I  swear,  millions  of  worlds 
Should  never  buy  me  to  be  like  that  Caesar. 

Decius.     Does  Cato  send  this  answer  back  to  Caesar, 
For  all  his  generous  cares,  and  proffer'd  friendship  ? 

Cato.      His  cares  for  me  are  insolent  and  vain  : 
Presumptuous  man  !  the  gods  take  care  of  Cato. 
Would  Caesar  show  the  greatness  of  his  soul, 
Bid  him  employ  his  care  for  these  my  friends. 
And  make  good  use  of  his  ill-gotten  power, 
By  shelt'ring  men  much  better  than  himself. 

Decius.     Your  high  unconquer'd  heart  makes  you  forgel 
You  are  a  man.     You  rush  on  your  destruction. 
But  I  have  done.     When  I  relgLte  hereafter 
The  tale  of  this  unhappy  embassy. 
All  Kome  will  be  in  tears. 

SCENE  III. 
Sempronius,  Lucius,  Cato,  Etc. 

Sempronius.  Cato,  we  thank  thee. 

The  mighty  genius  of  immortal  Kome 
Speaks  in  thy  voice,  thy  soul  breathes  liberty  : 


C  A  T  o .  415 

Caesar  will  shrink  to  hear  the  words  thou  utter' st, 
And  shudder  in  the  midst  of  all  his  conquests. 

Lucius.     The  senate  owns  its  gratitude  to  Cato, 
Who  with  so  great  a  soul  consults  its  safety, 
And  guards  our  lives,  while  he  neglects  his  own. 

Sempronius.    Sempronius  gives  no  thanks  on  this  account. 
Lucius  seems  fond  of  life ;  but  what  is  life  ? 
'Tis  not  to  stalk  about,  and  draw  fresh  air 
ij     From  time  to  time,  or  gaze  upon  the  sun  ; 
'Tis  to  be  free.     When  liberty  is  gone, 
Life  grows  insipid,  and  has  lost  its  relish. 
0  could  my  dying  hand  but  lodge  a  sword 
In  Caesar's  bosom,  and  revenge  my  country, 
By  heavens  I  could  enjoy  the  pangs  of  death, 
\    And  smile  in  agony, 
i. — Xtucius.  Others,  perhaps. 

May  serve  their  country  with  as  warm  a  zeal. 
Though  'tis  not  kindled  into  so  much  rage. 

Sempronius.     This  sober  conduct  is  a  mighty  virtue 
In  lukewarm  patriots. 

Cato.  Come  !  no  more,  Sempronius, 

All  here  are  friends  to  Home,  and  to  each  other. 
Let  us  not  weaken  still  the  weaker  side 
By  our  divisions. 

Sempronius.     Cato,  my  resentments 
Are  sacrificed  to  Eome — I  stand  reprov'd. 

Cato.     Fathers,  'tis  time  you  come  to  a  resolve. 

Lucius.     Cato,  we  all  go  into  your  opinion. 
Caesar's  behaviour  has  convinced  the  senate 
We  ought  to  hold  it  out  till  terms  arrive. " 

•  7'Ul  terms  arrive.      Terms  had  arrived,  already ;  or  which  is  better, 
Decius  tells  C;ilo  he  was  at  liberty  to  name  his  terms  ;  but  no  terms  could 


*I6  DRAMAS. 

Sempronius.    We  ought  to  hold  it  out  till  death ;  hut,  Cato 
Mj  private  voice  is  drown'd  amid  the  senate's. 

Cato.     Then  let  us  rise,  my  friends,  and  strive  to  fill 
This  little  interval,  this  pause  of  life, 
(While  yet  our  liberty  and  fates  are  doubtful) 
With  resolution,  friendship,  Roman  bravery, 
And  all  the  virtues  we  can  crowd  into  it ; 
That  heaven  may  say,  it  ought  to  be  prolonged. 
Fathers,  farewel — The  young  Numidian  prince 
Comes  forward,  and  expects  to  know  our  counsels. 


I 


SCENE    IV. 


Cato,  Juba. 

Cato.     Juba,  the  Roman  senate  has  resolv'd, 
Till  time  give  better  prospects,  still  to  keep 
The  sword  unsheath'd,  and  turn  its  edge  on  Caesar. 

Juba.     The  resolution  fits  a  Roman  senate 
But,  Cato,  lend  me  for  a  while  thy  patience, 
And  condescend  to  hear  a  young  man  speak. 

My  father,  when  some  days  before  his  death 
He  order'd  me  to  march  for  Utica 
(Alas  !  I  thought  not  then  hi*  death  so  near  !) 
Wept  o'er  me,  prest  nae  in  his  aged  arms. 
And,  a«^  his  griefs  gave  way,  '  My  son,'  said  he, 

be  accepted,  so  long  as  Caesar  resolved  to  keep  his  power.  The  sentence  be- 
fore us  is,  then,  clearly  incomplete,  and  should  be  j^iven  thus,  without  a  full 
stop, — "  We  ought  to  hold  it  out  till  terms  arrive,"  meaning  to  add  "  which 
it  becomes  js  to  accept"  or  some  such  thing.  But  Sempronius,  iu  his  blus- 
tering way,  catches  at  the  word  ^' terms,"  and  breaks  in  upon  Lucius,  with 
saying — "We  ought  to  hold  it  out  till  death."  That  some  such  clause,  as  I 
have  supposed,  is  wanting  to  complete  the  sense,  is  evident,  not  only  from 
the  reason  of  the  thing,  but  from  what  Cato  tells  Juba  in  the  next  scene,  that 
the  resolution  of  the  senate  was  to  hold  out  "  Till  time  give  better  pros- 
pects," i.  e.  not  only  till  terms  arrive  but  better  terms,  than  had  yet  been 
otfered. 


4n 


*  Whatever  fortune  shall  befall  thy  father, 
Be  Cato's  friend,  he'll  train  thee  up  to  great 
And  virtuous  deeds :  do  but  observe  him  well, 
Thou'lt  shun  misfortunes,  or  thou'lt  learn  to  bear  'em.* 

Cato.     Juba,  thy  father  was  a  worthy  prince, 
And  merited,  alas  !  a  better  fate ; 
But  heaven  thought  otherwise. 

Juba.  My  father's  fate, 

In  spite  of  all  the  fortitude  that  shines 
Before  my  face,  in  Cato's  great  example, 
Subdues  my  soul,  and  fills  my  eyes  with  tears. 

Cato.     It  is  an  honest  sorrow,  and  becomes  thee. 

Juba.     My  father  drew  respect  from  foreign  climes  : 
The  kings  of  Afric  sought  him  for  their  friend ; 
Kings  far  remote,  that  rule,  as  fame  reports, 
Behind  the  hidden  sources  of  the  Nile, 
In  distant  worlds,  on  t'other  side  the  sun : 
Oft  have  their  black  ambassadors  appeared, 
Loaden  with  gifts,  and  fill'd  the  courts  of  Zama. 

Cato.     I  am  no  stranger  to  thy  father's  greatness ! 

Juba.     I  would  not  boast  the  greatness  of  my  father, 
But  point  out  new  alliances  to  Cato. 
Had  we  not  better  leave  this  Utica, 
To  arm  Numidia  in  our  cause,  and  court 
Th'  assistance  of  my  father's  powerful  friends  ? 
Did  they  know  Cato,  our  remotest  kings 
Would  pour  embattled  multitudes  about  him ; 
Their  swarthy  hosts  would  darken  all  our  plains 
Doubling  the  native  horror  of  the  war, 
And  making  death  more  grim. 

Cato.  And  canst  thou  think 

Cato  will  fly  before  the  sword  of  Caesar  ? 

VOL.   I.— 18* 


4IS 


DRAMAS, 


Ti 


Reduced  like  Hannibal,  to  seek  relief 

From  court  to  court,  and  wander  up  and  down, 

A  vagabond  in  Afric  ! 

JuBA.  Cato,  perhaps 

I'm  too  officious,  but  my  forward  cares 
Would  fain  preserve  a  life  of  so  much  value. 
My  heart  is  wounded,  when  I  see  such  virtue 
Afflicted  by  the  weight  of  such  misfortunes. 

Cato.     Thy  nobleness  of  soul  obliges  me. 
But  know,  young  prince,  that  valour  soars  above 
What  the  world  calls  misfortune  and  affliction. 
These  are  not  ills ;  else  would  they  never  fall 
On  heaven's  first  favourites,  and  the  best  of  men 
The  gods,  in  bounty,  work  up  storms  about  us, 
That  give  mankind  occasion  to  exert 
Their  hidden  strength,  and  throw  out  into  practice 
Virtues,  which  shun  the  day,  and  lie  conceal  d 
In  the  smooth  seasons  and  the  calms  of  life. 

"3^BA.     I'm  charm'd  whene'er  thou  talk'st !     I  pant  for 
virtue ! 
And  all  my  soul  endeavours  at  perfection. 

Cato.     Dost  thou  love  watchings,  abstinence,  and  toil, 
Laborious  virtues  all  ?  learn  them  from  Cato  : 
Success  and  fortune  must  thou  learn  from  Caesar. 

Juba.     The  best  good  fortune  that  can  fall  on  Juba, 
The  whole  success  at  which  my  heart  aspires 
Depends  on  Cato. 

Cato.  What  does  Juba  say  ? 

Thy  words  confound  me. 

Juba.  I  would  fain  retract  them, 

Give  'em  me  back  again.     They  aim'd  at  nothing. 


C  ATO.  419 

Cato.    Tell  me  thy  wish,  young  prince;  make  not  my  ear 
A  stranger  to  thy  thoughts.* 

JuBA.  Oh  !  they're  extravagant ; 

Still  let  me  hide  them. 

Cato.  What  can  Juba  ask 

That  Cato  will  refuse  ! 

Juba.  I  fear  to  name  it. 

Marcia — inherits  all  her  father's  virtues. 

Cato.     What  wouldst  thou  say  ? 

Juba.  Cato,  thou  hast  a  daughter. 

Cato.     Adieu,  young  prince :  I  would  not  hear  a  word 
Should  lessen  thee  in  my  esteem :  remember 
The  hand  of  fate  is  over  us,  and  heaven 
Exacts  severity  from  all  our  thoughts  : 
It  is  not  now  a  time  to  talk  of  aught 
But  chains  or  conquest ;  liberty  or  death. 


SCENE   V. 
Syphax,  Juba. 

Syphax.      How's   this,  my  prince  !    what,  cover'd   with 
confusion  ? 
You  look  as  if  yon  stern  philosopher 
Had  just  now  chid  you. 
Juba.  Syphax,  I'm  undone  ! 

Syphax.     I  know  it  well. 

•  Juba.  Cato  thinks  meanly  of  me. 

Syphax.     And  so  will  all  mankind. 


•  Make  not  my  ear  a  stranger  to  thy  thoughts.     Quaintly  expressed, 
had  been  better  to  say  plainly, 

" and  make  me  not 

A  stranger  to  thy  thoughts." 


~n 


420 


DRAMAS. 


JuBA.  I've  opened  to  him 

The  weakness  of  my  soul,  my  love  for  Marcia. 

Syphax.     Cato's  a  proper  person  to  intrust 
A  love-tale  with. 

JuBA.  Oh  !  I  could  pierce  my  heart, 

My  foolish  heart !  was  ever  wretch  like  Juha  ? 

Syphax.     Alas  !  my  prince,  how  you  are  changed  of  late! 
I've  known  young  Juba  rise,  before  the  sun, 
To  beat  the  thicket  where  the  tiger  slept, 
Or  seek  the  lion  in  his  dreadful  haunts  : 
How  did  the  colour  mount  into  your  cheeks, 
When  first  you  rous'd  him  to  the  chase  !  I've  seen  you, 
Even  in  the  Libyan  dog-days,  hunt  him  down,  ■ 

Then  charge  him  close,  provoke  him  to  the  rage 
Of  fangs  and  claws,  and  stooping  from  your  horse 
Rivet  the  panting  savage  to  the  ground. 

Juba.     Prithee,  no  more  ! 

Syphax.  How  would  the  old  king  smile 

To  see  you  weigh  the  paws,  when  tipp'd  with  gold, 
And  throw  the  shaggy  spoils  about  your  shoulders ! 

Juba.     Syphax,  this  old  man's  talk  (tho'  honey  flow'd 
In  every  word)  would  now  lose  all  its  sweetness. 
Cato's  displeas'd,  and  Marcia  lost  for  ever ! 

Syphax.     Young  prince,  I  yet  could  give  you  good  advice 
Marcia  might  still  be  yours. 

Juba.  "What  say'st  thou,  Syphax  ? 

By  heavens,  thou  turn'st  me  all  into  attention, 

Syphax.     Marcia  might  still  be  yours. 

Juba.  As  how,  dear  Syphax  ? 

Syphax.     Juba  commands  Numidia's  hardy  troops, 
Mounted  on  steeds,  unused  to  the  restraint 
Of  curbs  or  bits,  and  fleeter  than  the  winds  : 


421 


Give  but  the  word,  we'll  snatch  this  damsel  up 
And  bear  her  oflf. 

JuBA.  Can  such  dishonest  thoughts 

Kise  up  in  man  !  wouldst  thou  seduce  my  youth 
To  do  an  act  that  would  destroy  my  honour  ?  ^ 

Syphax.     Gods  !  I  could  tear  my  beard  to  hear  you  talk ! 
Honour's  a  fine  imaginary  notion, 
That  draws  in  raw  and  unexperienced  men 
To  real  mischiefs,  while  they  hunt  a  shadow. 

JuBA.     Wouldst  thou  degrade  thy  prince  into  a  ruffian  ? 

Syphax.     The  boasted  ancestors  of  these  great  men, 
Whose  virtues  you  admire,  were  all  such  ruffians. 
This  dread  of  nations,  this  almighty  Rome, 
That  comprehends  in  her  wide  empire's  bounds 
All  under  heaven,  was  founded  on  a  rape. 
Your  Scipios,  Caesars,  Pompeys,  and  your  Catos, 
(These  gods  on  earth)  are  all  the  spurious  brood 
Of  violated  inaids,  of  ravish'd  Sabines. 

JuBA.     Syphax,  I  fear  that  hoary  head  of  thine 
Abounds  too  much  in  our  Numidian  wiles. 

Syphax.     Indeed,  my  prince,  you  want  to  know  the  world 
You  have  not  read  mankind ;  your  youth  admires 
The  throws  and  swellings  of  a  Roman  soul, 
Cato's  bold  flights,  the  extravagance  of  virtue. 

JuBA.     If  knowledge  of  the  world  makes  man  perfidious, 
May  Juba  ever  live  in  ignorance  ! 

Syphax.     Go,  go,  you're  young. 

Juba.  Gods  !  must  I  tamely  bear 

This  arrogance  unanswer'd  !  thou'rt  a  traitor, 
A  false  old  traitor. 

Syphax.  I  have  gone  too  far.  \Aude. 

Juba      Cato  shall  know  the  baseness  of  thy  soul 


422  DRAMAS, 


n 


« 


7 

I 


Syphax-     I  must  appease  this  storm,  or  perish  in  it. 

[Aside. 
Young  prince,  behold  these  locks  that  are  grown  white 
Beneath  a  helmet  in  your  father's  battles. 

JuBA.     Those  locks  shall  ne'er  protect  thy  insolence 

Syphax.     Must  one  rash  word,  th'  infirmity  of  age, 
Throw  down  the  merit  of  my  better  years  ? 
This  the  reward  of  a  whole  life  of  service  ! 
— Curse  on  the  boy !  how  steadily  he  hears  me  !     [Aside. 

JuBA.     Is  it  because  the  throne  of  my  forefathers 
Still  stands  unfill'd,  and  that  Numidia's  crown 
Hangs  doubtful  yet,  whose  head  it  shall  inclose, 
Thou  thus  presumest  to  treat  thy  prince  with  scorn  ? 

Syphax.       Why   will    you    rive    my   heart    with    such 
expressions'? 
Does  not  old  Syphax  follow  you  to  war  ? 
What  are  his  aims  ?  why  does  he  load  with  darts 
His  trembling  hand,  and  crush  beneath  a  casque 
His  wrinkled  brows  ?  what  is  it  he  aspires  to  1 
Is  it  not  this  ?  to  shed  the  slow  remains. 
His  last  poor  ebb  of  blood,  in  your  defence  ? 

JuBA.     Syphax,  no  more  !  I  would  not  hear  you  talk. 

Syphax.     Not  hear  me  talk!    what,  when  my  faith  to 
Juba, 
My  royal  master's  son,  is  call'd  in  question  ? 
My  prince  may  strike  me  dead,  and  I'll  be  dumb : 
But  whilst  I  live  I  must  not  hold  my  tongue, 
And  languish  out  old  age  in  his  displeasure. 

JuBA.     Thou  know'st  the  way  too  well  into  my  heart, 
I  do  believe  thee  loyal  to  thy  prince. 

Syphax.     What  greater  instance  can  I  give?  I've  offer'd 


i 

alk. 
faith  to 

i 


c  A  T  o .  423 

To  do  an  action,  wliieli  my  soul  abhors, 
And  gain  you  whom  you  love  at  any  price. 

JuBA.     Was  this  thy  motive  ?  I  have  been  too  hasty. 

Syphax.      And   'tis  for   this   my   prince  has  called  me 
traitor. 

JuBA.     Sure  thou  mistakest ;  I  did  not  call  thee  so. 

Syphax.      You  did  indeed,    my  prince,  you   called   me 
traitor : 
Nay,  farther,  threaten'd  you'd  complain  to  Cato. 
Of  what,  my  prince,  would  you  complain  to  Cato  ? 
That  Syphax  loves  you,  and  would  sacrifice 
His  life,  nay,  more,  his  honour  in  your  service. 

JuBA.     Syphax,  I  know  thou  lov'st  me,  but  indeed 
Thy  zeal  for  Juba  carried  thee  too  far. 
^  *  Honour's  a  sacred  tie,  the  law  of  kings. 
The  noble  mind's  distinguishing  perfection, 
That  aids  and  strengthens  virtue  where  it  meets  her, 
And  imitates  her  actions,  where  she  is  not : 
It  ought  not  to  be  sported  with.       ^ 

Syphax.  By  heavens 

I'm  ravish'd  when  you  talk  thus,  tho'  you  chide  me  ! 
Alas  !  I've  hitherto  been  used  to  think 
A  blind  officious  zeal  to  serve  my  king 
The  ruling  principle  that  ought  to  burn 
And  quench  all  others  in  a  subject's  heart. 
Happy  the  people,  who  preserve  their  honour 
By  the  same  duties  that  oblige  their  prince ! 

Juba.     Syphax,  thou  now  begin'st  to  speak  thyself. 
Numidia's  grown  a  scorn  among  the  nations 
For  breach  of  public  vows.     Our  Punic  faith 

*For  a  comment  on  these  famous  lines,  see  Note  on  the  Gnardian,  N"o, 
161. 


a 


424  DRAMAS. 

Is  infamous,  and  branded  to  a  proverb. 
Syphax,  we'll  join  our  cares,  to  purge  away   _^, 
Our  country's  crimes,  and  clear  her  reputation. 

Syphax.     Believe  me,  prince,  you  make  old  Syphax' 
To  hear  you  talk — but  'tis  with  tears  of  joy. 
If  e'er  your  father's  crown  adorn  your  brows, 
Numidia  will  be  blest  by  Cato's  lectures. 

JuBA.     Syphax,  thy  hand !  we'll  mutually  forget 
The  warmth  of  youth,  and  forwardness  of  age  : 
Thy  prince  esteems  thy  worth,  and  loves  thy  person. 
If  e'er  the  sceptre  comes  into  my  hand, 
Syphax  shall  stand  the  second  in  my  kingdom. 

Syphax.    Why  will  you  overwhelm  my  age  with  kindnesa  ? 
My  joy  grows  burdensome,  I  shan't  support  it. 

Juba.     Syphax,  farewel,  I'll  hence,  and  try  to  find 
Some  blest  occasion  that  may  set  me  right 
In  Cato's  thoughts.     I'd  rather  have  that  man* 
Approve  niy  deeds,  than  worlds  for  my  admirers. 

Syphax  solus.     Young   men   soon  give,  and  soon 
affronts ; 
Old  age  is  slow  in  both — a  false  old  traitor ! 
Those  words,  rash  boy,  may  chance  to  cost  thee  dear. 
My  heart  had  still  some  foolish  fondness  for  thee  : 
But  hence  !  'tis  gone :  I  give  it  to  the  winds : — 
Caesar,  I'm  wholly  thine — ^ 

*  Fd  rather  have  that  man,  &c.  That  is,  Juba's  honour  was  the  love  of 
honest  praise.     See  the  note  before  referred  to. 

b  C(esar,  Fm  wholly  thine.  Nature  is  finely  touched  in  this  scene^  but 
especially  in  the  concluding  soliloquy  of  Syphax.  An  ordinary  write? 
would  not  have  reflected,  that  the  worst  of  men  are  glad  to  lay  hold  ot( 
some  pi'etence,  to  reconcile  their  baseness  to  themselves. 


4 


425 


SCENE    VI. 

SyphaXj  Sempronius. 

Syphax.  All  hail,  Sempronius  ! 

Well,  Cato's  senate  is  resolved  to  wait 
The  fury  of  a  siege  before  it  yields. 

Sempronius.     Syphax,  we  both  were  on  the  verge  of  fate : 
Lucius  declared  for  peace,  and  terms  were  offer'd 
To  Cato  by  a  messenger  from  Caesar. 
Should  they  submit,  ere  our  designs  are  ripe. 
We  both  must  perish  in  the  common  wreck, 
Lost  in  a  general  undistinguish'd  ruin. 

Syphax.     But  how  stands  Cato  ? 

Seiwprgnius.  Thou  hast  seen  Mount  Atlas  *  *  ^ 

While  storms  and  tempests  thunder  on  its  brows. 
And  oceans  break  their  billows  at  its  feet, 
It  stands  unmoved,  and  glories  in  its  height. 
Such  is  that  haughty  man  ;  his  towering  soul,  \ 

'Midst  all  the  shocks  and  injuries  of  fortune,  ( 

Rises  superior,  and  looks  down  on  Caesar. 

Syphax.     But  what's  this  messenger  ? 

Sempronius.  I've  practis'd  with  him, 

And  found  a  means  to  let  the  victor  know 
That  Syphax  and  Sempronius  are  his  friends. 
But  let  me  now  examine  in  my  turn : 
Is  Juba  fixt  ? 

Syphax.         Yes — but  it  is  to  Cato, 
I've  try'd  the  force  of  every  reason  on  him, 

*  Thou  hast  seen  Mount  Atlas,  Wonderfully  judicious.  The  simile,  as 
fine  as  it  is,  had  been  cold  and  trivial,  if  no  particular  mountain  had  been 
specified ;  and  none  could  be  so  properly  and  gacefully  specified  in  i» 
simile  addressed  to  Syphax,  as  Mount  Atlas. 


426  DRAMAS. 

Sootli'd  and  caress'd,  been  angry,  sootli'd  again, 
Laid  safety,  life,  and  interest  in  Lis  sight. 
But  all  are  vain,  lie  scorns  them  all  for  Gate. 

Sempronius.    Come,  'tis  no  matter,  we  shall  do  without  him. 
He'll  make  a  pretty  figure  in  a  triumph, 
And  serve  to  trip  before  the  victor's  chariot. 
Syphax,  I  now  may  hope  thou  hast  forsook 
Thy  Juba's  cause,  and  wishest  Marcia  mine. 

Syphax.  May  she  be  thine  as  fast  as  thou  wouldst  have  her  t 
Sempronius.     Syphax,  I  love  that  woman ;  though  I  curse 
Her  and  myself,  yet,  spite  of  me,  I  love  her. 

Syphax.     Make  Cato  sure,  and  give  up  Utica, 
Caesar  will  ne'er  refuse  thee  such  a  trifle. 
But  are  thy  troops  prepared  for  a  revolt  ? 
Does  the  sedition  catch  from  man  to  man. 
And  run  among  their  ranks  ? 

Sempronius.  All-,  all  is  ready, 

The  factious  leaders  are  our  friends,  that  spread 
Murmurs  and  discontents  among  the  soldiers. 
They  count  their  toilsome  marches,  long  fatigues, 
Unusual  fastings,  and  will  bear  no  more 
This  medley  of  philosophy  and  war. 
Within  an  hour  they'll  storm  the  senate-house. 

Syphax.     Meanwhile  I'll  draw  up  my  Numidian  troopfc 
Within  the  sc[uare,  to  exercise  their  arms, 
And,  as  I  see  occasion,  favour  thee. 
I  laugh  to  think  how  your  unshaken  Cato 
Will  look  aghast,  while  unforeseen  destruction 
Pours  in  upon  him  thus  from  every  side. 
^    So,  where  our  wide  Numidian  wastes "  extend, 
Sudden,  th'  impetuous  hurricanes  descend, 

•  Numidian  wastes.     The  same  beauty  as  in  the  simile  of  Mount  Atlaa. 


427 


Wheel  through  the  air,  in  circling  eddies  play, 
Tear  up  the  sands,  and  sweep  whole  plains  away. 
The  helpless  traveller,  with  wild  surprise, 
Sees  the  dry  desert  all  around  him  rise. 
And  smother'd  in  the  dusty  whirlwind  dies. 


ACT  III. 
SCENE   I. 

Marcus,  Fortius. 

Marcus.     Thanks  to  my  stars,  I  have  not  ranged  about 
The  wilds  of  life,  ere  I  could  find  a  friend  ; 
Nature  first  pointed  out  my  Fortius  to  me. 
And  early  taught  me,  by  her  secret  force, 
To  love  thy  person,  ere  I  knew  thy  merit ; 
Till,  what  was  instinct,  grew  up  into  friendship. 

Fortius.     Marcus,  the  friendships  of  the  world  are  oft 
Confederacies  in  vice,  or  leagues  of  pleasure ; 
Oiu"S  has  severest  virtue  for  its  basis, 
^  nd  such  a  friendship  ends  not  but  with  life. 

Marcus.  Fortius,  thou  know'st  my  soul  in  all  its  weakness, 
Then  prithee  spaYe  me  on  its  tender  side. 
Indulge  me  but  in  love,  my  other  passions 
jhall  rise  and  fall  by  virtue's  nicest  rules. 

Fortius.     When  love's  well-timeST"^  not  a  fault  to  love. 
The  strong,  the  brave,  thfc  virtuous,  and  the  wise. 
Sink  in  the  soft  captivity  together, 
I  would  not  urge  thee  to  dismiss  thy  passion, 
(I  know  'twere  vain)  but  to  suppress  its  force. 
Till  better  times  may  make  it  look  more  graceful. 

Marcus.     Alas  •  thou  talk'st  like  one  who  never  felt 


428 


DRAMAS 


Th'  impatient  throbs  and  longings  of  a  soul, 
That  pants,  and  reaches  after  distant  good. 
A  lover  does  not  live  by  vulgar  time : 
Believe  me,  Fortius,  in  my  Lucia's  absence 
Life  hangs  upon  me,  and  becomes  a  burden  ; 
And  yet,  when  I  behold  the  charming  maid, 
I'm  ten  times  more  undone ;  while  hope  and  fear, 
And  grief,  and  rage,  and  love,  rise  up  at  once. 
And  with  variety  of  pain  distract  me. 

Fortius,     What  can  thy  Fortius  do  to  give  thee  helpT 

Marcus.     Fortius,  thou  oft  enjoy'st  the  fair  one's  presence: 
Then  undertake  my  cause,  and  plead  it  to  her 
With  all  the  strength  and  heats  of  eloquence 
Fraternal  love  and  friendship  can  inspire. 
Tell  her  "thy  brother  languishes  to  death, 
And  fades  away,  and  withers  in  his  bloom  ; 
That  he  forgets  his  sleep,  and  loaths  his  food. 
That  youth,  and  health,  and  war,  are  joyless  to  him : 
Describe  his  anxious  days,  and  restless  nights. 
And  all  the  torments  that  thou  seest  me  suffer. 

Fortius.     Marcus,  I  beg  thee  give  me  not  an  office 
That  suits  me  so  ill.     Thou  know'st  my  temper. 

Marcus.     Wilt  thou  behold  me  sinking  in  my  woes  ? 
And  wilt  thou  not  reach  out  a  friendly  arm. 
To  raise  me  from  amidst  this  plunge  of  sorrows  ?* 

Fortius.     Marcus,  thou  canst  not  ask  what  I'd  refuse. 
But  here  believe  me,  I've  a  thousand  reasons — 

Marcus.     I  know  thou'lt  say  my  passion's  out  of  season ; 
That  Gate's  great  example  and  misfortunes 
Should  both  conspire  to  drive  it  from  my  thoughts. 

•  i.  e.  This  flood  of  sorrows,  into  which  I  am  plunged.     Very 
pressed. 


0  A  T  o .  429 

But  what's  all  this  to  one  who  loves  like  me ! 
Oh  Fortius,  Fortius,  from  my  soul  I  wish 
Thou  didst  but  know  thyself  what  'tis  to  love ! 
Then  wouldst  thou  pity  and  assist  thy  brother. 

Fortius.     What  should  I  do  !  if  I  disclose  my  passion 
Our  friendship's  at  an  end :  if  I  conceal  it. 
The  world  will  call  me  false  to  a  friend  and  brother.  [Aside, 

Marcus.     But  see  where  Lucia,  at  her  wonted  hour, 
Amid  the  cool  of  yon  high  marble  arch,*^ 
Enjoys  the  noon-day  breeze  !  observe  her,  Fortius ! 
That  face,  that  shape,  those  eyes,  that  heaven  of  beauty ! 
Observe  her  well,  and  blame  me  if  thou  canst. 

Fortius.     She  sees  us,  and  advances — 

Marcus.  I'll  withdraw, 

And  leave  you  for  a  while.     Remember,  Fortius, 
Thy  brother's  life  depends  upon  thy  tongue. 

SCENE   II. 

Lucia,  Fortius. 

Lucia.     Did  I  not  see  your  brother  Marcus  here  ? 
Why  did  he  fly  the  place,  and  shun  my  presence  ? 
"Pqb-tius.     Oh,  Lucia,  langua^^e  is  too  faint  to  show 
.  ^is  rage  of  love  ;  it  preys  upon  his  life ; 
He  pines,  he  sickens,  he  despairs,  he  dies : 
His  passions  and  his  virtues  lie  confused. 
And  mixt  together  in  so  wild  a  tumult. 
That  the  whole  man  is  quite  disfigur'd  in  him. 
Heavens  !  would  one  think  'twere  possible  for  love 
To  make  such  ravage  in  a  noble  soul ! 

*  Amid  the  cool  of  yon  high  marble  arch.     A  Roman  idea.     An  ordinary^  • 
^r^ter  would  not  have  been  so  obsei'vant  of  decorum. 


'"yi/h^' 


430 


DRAMAS 


Oh,  Lucia,  I'm  distrest !  my  heart  bleeds  for  him ; 
Even  now,  while  thus  I  stand  blest  in  thy  presence, 
A  secret  damp  of  grief  comes  o'er  my  thoughts, 
And  I'm  unhappy,  tho'  thou  smilest  upon  me. 

Lucia.     How  wilt  thou  guard  thy  honour,  in  the  shock 
Of  love  and  friendship  !  think  betimes,  my  Fortius, 
Think  how  the  nuptial  tie,  that  might  insure 
Our  mutual  bliss,  -would  raise  to  such  a  height 
Thy  brother's  griefs,  as  might  perhaps  destroy  him. 

Fortius.      Alas,  poor  youth  !  what  dost  thou  think,  mj 
Lucia  ? 
His  generous,  open,  un designing  heart 
Has  begg'd  his  rival  to  solicit  for  him. 
Then  do  not  strike  him  dead  with  a  denial, 
But  holdliim  up  in  life  and  cheer  his  soul 
With  the  faint  glimmering  of  a  doubtful  hope  : 
Ferhaps,  when  we  have  pass'd  these  gloomy  hours, 
And  weather'd  out  the  storm  that  beats  upon  us — 

Lucia.     No,  Fortius,  no  !  I  see  thy  sister's  tears, 
Thy  father's  anguish,  and  thy  brother's  death. 
In  the  pursuit  of  our  ill-fated  loves. 
And,  Fortius,  here  I  swear,  to  heaven  I  swear. 
To  heaven,  and  all  the  powers  that  judge  mankind, 
Never  to  mix  my  plighted  hands  with  thine. 
While  such  a  cloud  of  mischiefs  hangs  about  us, 
But  to  forget  our  loves,  and  drive  thee  out 
From  all  my  thoughts,  as  far — as  I  am  able. ' 

Fortius.     What  hast  tlion  said  !    I'm  thunder-si.i 
— recall 
Those  hasty  words,  or  I  am  lost  for  ever. 

Lucia.     Has  not  the  vow  already  pass'd  my  lips  ? 
The  gods  have  heard  it,  and  'tis  seal'd  in  heaven. 


n 


;k 

i 


CATO.  431 

May  all  the  vengeance  that  was  ever  pour'd 
On  perjur'd  heads,  o'erwhelm  me,  if  I  break  it ! 

Fortius.     Fixt  in  astonishment,  I  gaze  upon  thee ; 
Like  one  just  blasted  by  a  stroke  from  heaven, 
Who  pants  for  breath,  and  stiffens,  yet  alive. 
In  dreadful  looks  :  a.  monument  of  wrath ! 

Lucia.     At  length  IVe  acted  my  severest  part, 
I  feel  the  woman  breaking  in  upon  me, 
And  melt  about  my  heart !  my  tears  will  flow. 
But  oh  111  think  no  more !  the  hand  of  fate 
Has  torn  thee  from  me,  and  I  must  forget  thee. 

Fortius.     Hard-hearted,  cruel  maid  ! 

Lucia.  Oh  stop  those  sounds, 

Those  killing  sounds  !  why  dost  thou  frown  upon  me  ? 
My  blood  runs  cold,  my  heart  forgets  to  heave. 
And  life  itself  goes  out  at  thy  displeasure. 
The  gods  forbid  us  to  indulge  our  loves, 
But,  oh  !  I  cannot  bear  thy  hate,  and  live  ! 

Fortius.      Talk   not   of   love,    thou   never    knew'st    its 
force, 
I've  been  deluded,  led  into  a  dream 
Of  fancied  bliss.     Oh  Lucia,  cruel  maid  ! 
Thy  dreadful  vow,  loaden  with  death,  still  sounds 
In  my  stunn'd  ears.     What  shall  I  say  or  do  ?  ^ 

Quick,  let  us  part !  perdition's  in  thy  presence, 
And  horror  dwells  about  thee  ! — hah,  she  faints  ! 
Wretch  that  I  am !  what  has  my  rashness  done  ! 
Lucia,  thou  injur'd  innocence  !  thou  best 
And  loveliest  of  thy  sex !  awake,  my  Lueia, 
Or  Fortius  rushes  on  his  sword  to  join  thee. 
— Her  imprecations  reach  not  to  the  tomb, 
They  shut  not  out  society  in  death — 


432  DRAMAS. 

But,  hah  !  she  moves  !  life  wanders  up  and  down 
Through  all  her  face,  and  lights  up  every  charm. 

Lucia.     0  Fortius,  was  this  well ! — to  frown  on  her 
That  lives  upon  thy  smiles !  to  call  in  doubt 
The  faith  of  one  expiring  at  thy  feet, 
That  loves  thee  more  than  ever  woman  lov'd ! 
— What  do  I  say  ?  my  half-recover'd  sense 
Forgets  the  vow  in  which  my  soul  is  bound. 
Destruction  stands  betwixt  us  !  we  must  part. 

Fortius.     Name  not  the  word,  my  frighted  thoughts  run 
back, 
And  startle  into  madness  at  the  sound. 

Lucia.     What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ?  consider  well 
The  train  of  ills  our  love  would  draw  behind  it. 
Think,  Fortius,  think,  thou  seest  thy  dying  brother 
Stabb'd  at  his  heart,  and  all  besmear' d  with  blood, 
Storming  at  heaven  and  thee  !  thy  awful  sire 
Sternly  demands  the  cause,  the  accursed  cause, 
That  robs  him  of  his  son  !  poor  Marcia  trembles, 
Then  tears  her  hair,  and  frantic  in  her  griefs 
Calls  out  on  Lucia  !  what  could  Lucia  answer  ? 
Or  how  stand  up  in  such  a  scene  of  sorrow ! 

Fortius.     To  my  confusion  and  eternal  grief, 
I  must  approve  the  sentence  that  destroys  me. 
The  mist  that  hung  about  my  mind,  clears  up ; 
And  now,  athwart  the  terrors  that  thy  vow 
Has  planted  round  thee,  thou  appear'st  more  fair, 
More  amiable,  and  risest  in  thy  charms. 
Loveliest  of  women !  heaven  is  in  thy  soul, 
Beauty  and  virtue  shine  for  ever  round  thee, 
Bright'ning  each  other !  thou  art  all  divine ! 


I 


C  A  T  o  .  43b 

Lucia.     Fortius,  no  more  !  thy  words  shoot  through  my 
heart, 
Melt  my  resolves,  and  turn  me  all  to  love. 
"Why  are  those  tears  of  fondness  in  thy  eyes  ?  * 
Why  heaves  thy  heart  ?  why  swells  thy  soul  with  sorrow  ? 
It  softens  me  too  much — farewel,  my  Fortius, 
Farewel,  though  death  is  in  the  word,  for-ever ! 

Fortius.      Stay,    Lucia,    stay,   what    dost    thou    say? 
For-ever  ? 

Lucia.     Have  I  not  sworn  ?  if,  Fortius,  thy  success 
Must  throw  thy  brother  on  his  fate  ?  farewel, 
Oh,  how  shall  I  repeat  the  word  ?  for-ever ! 

Fortius.    Thus  o'er  the  dying  lamp  *  th'  unsteady  flame 
Hangs  quivering  on  a  point,  leaps  oflf  by  fits, 
And  falls  again,  as  loath  to  quit  its  hold. 
— Thou  must  not  go,  my  soul  still  hovers  o'er  thee. 
And  can't  get  loose. 

Lucia.  If  the  firm  Fortius  shake 

To  hear  of  parting,  think  what  Lucia  suffers  ! 

Fortius.     'Tis  true  ;  unruffled  and  serene  I've  met 
The  common  accidents  of  life,  but  here 
Such  an  unlook'd-for  storm  of  ills  falls  on  me, 
It  beats  down  all  my  strength.     I  cannot  bear  it. 
We  must  not  part. 

Lucia.  What  dost  thou  say  ?  not  part  ? 

^  Hast  thou  forgot  the  vow  that  I  have  made  ? 
Are  there  not  heavens,  and  gods,  and  thunder  o'er  us  ? 
— But  see !  thy  brother  Marcus  bends  this  way  ! 
I  sicken  at  the  sight.     Once  more,  farewel, 

•  Thus  o^er  the  dying  lamp.  An  elegant  simile,  and  -well  expressed ; 
but  too  pretty  for  the  circumstances  of  the  speaker.  If  the  author  had 
had  a  chorus  at  his  command,  lie  might  have  introduced  it  more  naturally. 

TOL.   I. — 19 


434  DRAMAS. 

Farewel,  and  knew  thou  wrong'st  me,  if  thou  think'st 
Ever  was  love,  cr  ever  grief,  like  mine. 

SCENE    III. 
Marcus,  Fortius. 

Marcus.     Fortius,  what  hopes?  how  stands  she  ?  am  I 
doom'd 
To  life  or  death  ? 

Fortius.  What  would'st  thou  have  me  say  ?    fli 

Marcus.     What  means   this  pensive  posture  ?  thou  ap- 
pear'st 
Like  one  amazed  and  terriiSied. 

Fortius.  I've  reason.  4||iHI 

Marcus.      Thy    down-cast    looks,   and    thy    disoraer'd 
thoughts 
Tell  me  my  fate.     I  ask  not  the  success 
My  cause  has  found. 

Fortius.  I'm  griev'd  I  undertook  it. 

Marcus.     What !    does  the  barbarous  maid  insult  my 
heart, 
My  aching  heart !  and  triumph  in  my  pains  ? 
That  I  could  cast  her  from  my  thoughts  for  ever  ! 

Fortius.     Away  !  you're  too  suspicious  in  your  griefs ; 
Lucia,  though  sworn  never  to  think  of  love, 
Compassionates  your  pains,  and  pities  you. 

Marcus.     Compassionates  my  pains,  and  pities  me 
What  is  compassion  when  'tis  void  of  love  ? 
Fool  that  I  was  to  chuse  so  cold  a  friend 
To  urge  my  cause  !  compassionates  my  pains  ! 
Frithee  what  art,  what  rhetoric  didst  thou  use 
To  gain  this  mighty  boon  ?     She  pities  me  I 


I 


CATo.  435 

To  one  that  asks  the  warm  return  of  love, 
Compassion's  cruelty,  'tis  scorn,  'tis  death — 

Fortius.     Marcus,  no  more  !  have  I  deserv'd  this  treat- 
ment ? 

Marcus.     What  have  I  said  !   0  Fortius,  0  forgive  me  ! 
A  soul  exasperated  in  ills  falls  out 
With  every  thing,  its  friend,  its  self — ^but,  hah! 
What  means  that  shout,  big  with  the  sounds  of  war  ? 
What  new  alarm  ? 

Fortius.  A  second,  louder  yet. 

Swells  in  the  winds,  and  comes  more  full  upon  us. 

Marcus.     Oh,  for  some  glorious  cause  to  fall  in  battle  ! 
Lucia,  thou  hast  undone  me  !  thy  disdain 
Has  broke  my  heart :  'tis  death  must  give  me  ease. 

Fortius.     Quick,  let  us  hence ;  who  knows  if  Cato's  life 
Stand  sure  ?     0  Marcus,  I  am  warm'd,  my  heart 
Leaps  at  the  trumpet's  voice,  and  burns  for  glory. 

SCENE    IV. 
Sempronius  with  the  leaders  of  the  mutiny. 

Sempronius.     At  length  the  winds  are  rais'd,  the  storm 
blows  high, 
Be  it  your  care,  my  friends,  to  keep  it  up 
In  its  full  fury,  and  direct  it  right, 
Till  it  has  spent  itself  on  Cato's  head. 
Meanwhile  I'll  herd  among  his  friends,  and  seem 
One  of  the  number,  that  whate'er  arrive, 
My  friends  and  fellow  soldiers  may  be  safe. 

First  Leader.    We  all  are  safe,  Sempronius  is  our  friend, 
Sempronius  is  as  brave  a  man  as  Cato. 
But,  hark  !  he  enters.     Bear  up  boldly  to  him  ; 


436  DRAMAS. 

Be  sure  j^ou  beat  him  down,  and  bind  him  fast. 
This  day  will  end  our  toils,  and  give  us  rest ! 
Fear  nothing,  for  Sempronius  is  our  friend. 


SCENE    V. 
Cato,  Sempronius,  Lucius,  Fortius,  Marcus,  &c. 


n 


Cato.     Where  are  these  bold  intrepid  sons  of  war. 
That  greatly  turn  their  backs  upon  the  foe. 
And  to  their  general  send  a  brave  defiance  ? 

Sempronius.     Curse  on  their  dastard  souls,  they  stand 
astonish' d  !  [^Aside* 

Cato.     Perfidious  men  !  and  will  you  thus  dishonour 
Your  past  exploits,  and  sully  all  your  wars  ? 
Do  you  confess  'twas  not  a  zeal  for  Rome, 
Nor  love  of  liberty,  nor  thirst  of  honour. 
Drew  you  thus  far ;  but  hopes  to  share  the  spoil 
Of  conquer'd  towns  and  plunder'd  provinces  ? 
Fir'd  with  such  motives  you  do  well  to  join 
With  Cato's  foes,  and  follow  Csesar's  banners. 
Why  did  I  'scape  th'  invenom'd  aspic's  rage, 
And  all  the  fiery  monsters  of  the  desert. 
To  see  this  day  ?  why  could  not  Cato  fall 
Without  your  guilt  ?  behold,  ungrateful  men, 
Behold  my  bosom  naked  to  your  swords. 
And  let  the  man  that's  injur 'd  strike  the  blow. 
Which  of  you  all  suspects  that  he  is  wrong'd, 
Or  thinks  he  sufi"ers  greater  ills  than  Cato  ? 
Am  I  distinguish'd  from  you  but  by  toils, 
Superior  toils,  and  heavier  weight  of  eares  ? 
Painful  pre-eminence ! 


I 


c  A  T  o  .  437 

Sempronius.  By  heavens  they  droop  ! 

Confusion  to  the  villains  !  all  is  lost.  ^Aside. 

Cato.     Have  you  forgotten  Libya's  burning  waste, 
Its  barren  rocks,  parch'd  earth,  and  hills  of  sand. 
Its  tainted  air,  and  all  its  broods  of  poison  ? 
Who  was  the  first  to  explore  th'  untrodden  path, 
When  life  was  hazarded  in  every  step  ? 
Or,  fainting  in  the  long  laborious  march. 
When  on  the  banks  of  an  unlook'd-for  stream 
You  sunk  the  river  with  repeated  draughts. 
Who  was  the  last  in  all  your  host  that  thirsted  ? 

Sempronius.       If    some    penurious    source    by    chance 
appear'd. 
Scanty  of  waters,  when  you  scoop'd  it  dry, 
And  offer'd  the  full  helmet  up  to  Cato, 
Did  he  not  dash  th'  un  tasted  moisture  from  him  ? 
Did  not  he  lead  you  through  the  mid-day  sun. 
And  clouds  of  dust  ?  did  not  his  temples  glow 
In  the  same  sultry  winds,  and  scorching  heats  ? 

Cato.     Hence,  worthless   men !  hence !  and  complain  to 
Caesar. 
You  could  not  undergo  the  toils  of  war. 
Nor  bear  the  hardships  that  your  leader  bore. 

Lucius.     See,  Cato,  see  th'  unhappy  men  !  they  weep  ! 
Fear,  and  remorse,  and  sorrow  for  their  crime, 
Appear  in  every  look,  and  plead  for  mercy. 

Cato.     Learn  to  be^ honest  men,  give  up  your  leaders, 
And  pardon  shall  descend  on  all  the  rest. 

Sempronius.     Cato,  commit  these  wretches  to  my  care. 
First  let  'em  each  be  broken  on  the  rack. 
Then,  with  what  life  remains,  impaled  and  left 
To  writhe  at  leisure  round  the  bloody  stake. 


438  DRAMAS 


There  let  'em  hang,  and  taint  the  southern  wind. 
The  partners  of  their  crime  will  learn  obedience, 
When  they  look  up  and  see  their  fellow-traitors 
Stuck  on  a  fork,  and  blackening  in  the  sun. 

Lucius.     Sempronius,  why,  why  wilt  thou  urge  the  fate 
Of  wretched  men  ? 

Sempronius.  How  !  wouldst  thou  clear  rebellion  ? 

Lucius  (good  man)  pities  the  poor  offenders, 
That  would  imbrue  their  hands  in  Gate's  blood. 

Cato.     Forbear,  Sempronius  ! — see  they  suffer  deatfi, 
But  in  their  deaths  remember  they  are  men. 
Strain  not  the  laws  to  make  their  tortures  grievous 
Lucius,  the  base  degenerate  age  requires 
Severity,  and  justice  in  its  rigour ; 
This  awes  an  impious,  bold,  offending  world, 
Commands  obedience,  and  gives  force  to  laws. 
When  by  just  vengeance  guilty  mortals  perish, 
The  gods  behold  their  punishment  with  pleasure, 
And  lay  the  uplifted  thunder-bolt  aside. 

Sempronius.     Cato,  I  execute  thy  will  with  pleasure. 

Cato.     Meanwhile  we'll  sacrifice  to  liberty. 
Remember,  0  my  friends,  the  laws,  the  rights, 
The  generous  plan  of  power  deliver'd  down. 
From  age  to  age,  by  your  renown'd  forefathers, 
(So  dearly  bought,  the  price  of  so  much  blood) 
0  let  it  never  perish  in  your  hands ! 
But  piously  transmit  it  to  your  children. 
Do  thou,  great  liberty,  inspire  our  souls, 
And  make  our  lives  in  th|r  possession  happy, 
Or  our  deaths  glorious  in  thy  just  defence. 


n 


1 


c  A  T  o .  439 

SCENE    VI. 
Sempronius  and  the  leaders  of  the  mutiny. 

First  Leader.     Sempronius,  you  have  acted  like  yourself, 
One  would  have  thought  you  had  "been  half  in  earnest. 

Sempronius.     Villain,  stand  off !  base,  groveling,  worthless 
wretches, 
Mongrels  in  faction,  poor  faint-hearted  traitors  ! 
•  Second    Leader.       Nay,    now   you    carry    it    too    far, 

Sempronius, 
Throw  off  the  mask,  there  are  none  here  but  friends. 

Sempronius.      Know,  villains,  when    such    paltry  slaves 
presume 
To  mix  in  treason,  if  the  plot  succeeds, 
They're  thrown  neglected  by :  but  if  it  fails, 
They're  sure  to  die  like  dogs,  as  you  shall  do. 
Here,  take  these  factious  monsters,  drag  'em  forth 
To  sudden  death. 

Enter    Guards. 

First  Leader.  Nay,  since  it  comes  to  this — 

Sempronius.     Dispatch  'em  quick,  but  first  pluck  out  their 
tongues. 
Lest  with  their  dying  breath  they  sow  sedition. 

SCENE  VII. 

Syphax,  Sempronius. 

Syphax.     Our  first  design,  my  friend,  has  prov'd  abortive ; 
Still  there  remains  an  after-game  to  play : 
My  troops  are  mounted  ;  their  Numidian  steeds 


<40 


DRAMAS. 


Snuff  up  the  wind,  and  long  to  scour  the  desert : 
Let  but  Sempronius  head  us  in  our  flight, 
We'll  force  the  gate  where  Marcus  keeps  his  guard 
And  hew  down  all  that  would  oppose  our  passage. 
A  day  will  bring  us  into  Caesar's  camp. 

Sempronius.    Confusion  !  I  have  fail'd  of  half  my  purpose 
Marcia,  the  charming  Marcia's  left  behind  ! 

Syphax.     How  !  will  Sempronius  turn  a  woman's  slave  ? 

Sempronius.     Think  not  thy  friend  can  ever  feel  the  soft 
Unmanly  warmth  and  tenderness  of  love. 
Syphax,  I  long  to  clasp  that  haughty  maid, 
And  bend  her  stubborn  virtue  to  my  passion  : 
When  I  have  gone  thus  far,  I'd  cast  her  off. 

Syphax.  Well  said !  that's  spoken  like  thyself,  Semproniua 
What  hinder  then,  but  that  thou  find  her  out, 
And  hurry  her  away  by  manly  force  ? 

Sempronius.     But  how  to  gain  admission  ?  for  access 
Is  given  to  none  but  Juba,  and  her  brothers.  , 

Syphax.  Thou  shalt  have  Juba's  dress,  and  Juba's  guards 
The  doors  will  open,  when  Niimidia's  prince 
Seems  to  appear  before  the  slaves  that  watch  them. 

Sempronius.     Heavens,  what  a  thought  is  there  ! 
cia's  my  own  ! 
How  will  my  bosom  swell  with  anxious  joy, 
When  I  behold  her  struggling  in  my  arms, 
With  glowing  beauty  and  disorder'd  charms, 
While  fear  and  anger,  with  alternate  grace, 
Pant  in  her  breast,  and  vary  in  her  face  ! 

»  Thou  shalt  have  Juba's  dress,  and  Juba's  guards.  It  was  so  natural  for 
Syphax,  so  much  in  his  character,  to  suggest  this  expedient,  that  one  has 
no  suspicion  of  its  being  contrived  to  cany  on  the  fable,  and  so  bring 
about  the  interesting  discovery  in  the  third  scene  of  the  fourth  act. — It  is 
by  the  invention  and  improvement  of  such  incidents  as  these,  that  the 
true  diamatic  poet  is  distinguished  from  an  ordinary  |)lay-writer. 


1 

IS. 

I 


Mar- 


CATO.  441 

So  Pluto,  •»  seiz'd  of  Proserpine,  convey'd 
To  hell's  tremendous  gloom  th'  affrighted  maid, 
There  grimly  smil'd,  pleas'd  with  the  beauteous  prize, 
Nor  envy'd  Jove  his  sun-shine  and  his  skies. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE    I. 

Lucia,    Marcia. 

Lucia.     Now  tell  me,  Marcia,  tell  me  from  thy  soul, 
If  thou  believ'st  'tis  possible  for  woman 
To  suffer  greater  ills  than  Lucia  suffers  ? 

Marcia.     0  Lucia,  Lucia,  might  my  big-swoln  heart 
Yent  all  its  griefs,  and  give  a  loose  to  sorrow 
Marcia  could  answer  thee  in  sighs,  keep  pace 
With  all  thy  woes,  and  count  out  .tear  for  tear. 

Lucia.     I  know  thou'rt  doom'd,  alike,  to  be  belov'd 
By  Juba  and  thy  father's  friend,  Sempronius  ; 
But  which  of  these  has  power  to  charm  like  Portius  ! 

Marcia.     Still  must  I  beg  thee  not  to  name  Sempronius  ? 
Lucia,  I  like  not  that  loud  boisterous  man ; 
Juba  to  all  the  bravery  of  a  hero 
Adds  softest  love,  and  more  than  female  sweetness  ; 
Juba  might  make  the  proudest  of  our  sex, 
Any  of  woman-kind,  but  Marcia,  happy. 

Lucia.     And  why  not  Marcia  ?  come,  you  strive  in  vain 
To  hide  your  thoughts  from  one  who  knows  too  well 
The  inward  glowings  of  a  heart  in  love. 

•  So  Phdo,  (fee,  The  simile  is  in  character ;  but  is  not  so  properly  ad- 
dressed to  Syphax :  I  could  wish  the  Numidian  had  been  dismissed,  and 
this  last  speech  had  past  in  soliloquy. 

VOL.   I. — 19* 


442  DRAMAS. 

Marcia.     While  Cato  lives,  his  daughter  has  no  right 
To  love  or  hate,  but  as  his  choice  directs. 

Lucia.     But  should  this  father  give  you  to  Sempronius  ? 

Marcia.     I  dare  not  think  he  will :  but  if  he  should — 
Why  wilt  thou  add  to  all  the  griefs  I  suffer 
Imaginary  ills,  and  fancy'd  tortures  ? 
I  hear  the  sound  of  feet !  they  march  this  way  ! 
Let  us  retire,  and  try  if  we  can  drown 
Each  softer  thought  in  sense  of  present  danger. 
When  love  once  pleads  admission  to  our  hearts 
(In  spite  of  all  the  virtue  we  can  boast) 
^  The  woman  that  deliberates  is  lost. »    k 

SCENE    II. 

Sempronius,  dressed  like  Juba,  with  Numidian  guards. 

Sempronius.     The   deer  is  lodg'd.     I've  tracked  her  to 
her  covert. 
Be  sure  you  mind  the  word,  and  when  I  give  it, 
Rush  in  at  once,  and  seize  upon  your  prey. 
Let  not  her  cries  or  tears  have  force  to  move  you. 
— How  will  the  young  Numidian  rave,  to  see 
His  mistress  lost !  if  aught  could  glad  my  soul, 
Beyond  th'  enjoyment  of  so  bright  a  prize, 
'Twould  be  to  torture  that  young  gay  barbarian. 
— But,  hark,  what  noise  !  death  to  my  hopes  !  'tis  he, 

•  The  woman  that  deliberates  is  lost.  This  line  has  been  thought  too 
free  and  injurious  to  the  sex:  but  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  Mareia  is 
speaking  of  virtuous  love,  which  vindicates  the  sentence  from  such  impu- 
tations. What,  then,  it  may  be  asked,  is  meant  by — "  In  spite  of  all  the 
virtue  we  can  boast  ?  "  clearly,  the  virtue  of  firmness,  in  resolving  not  to 
admit  a  lawful  passion  in  unfit  circwnstances.  But  all  the  virtue  of  this 
sort,  which  the  best  women  can  muster  up,  will  hardly  keep  its  ground 
agaiiist  deliberation.  However,  the  severe  Marcia  was  lost  by  surprise,  and 
not  by  deliberation. 


c  A  T  o .  443 

'Tis  Juba's  self !  there  is  but  one  way  left — 

He  must  be  murder'd,  and  a  passage  cut 

Througb  those  his  guards — Hah  !  dastards,  do  you  tremble  ? 

Or  act  like  men,  or  by  yon  azure  heaven — 

Enter  Juba. 

JuBA.     What  do  I  see  1  who's  this  that  dare  usui-p 
The  guards  and  habit  of  Numidia's  prince  ? 

Sempronius.    One  that  was  born  to  scourge  thy  arrogance, 
Presumptuous  youth ! 

Juba.  What  can  this  mean  ?  Sempronius  ! 

Sempronius.     My  sword  shall  answer  thee.     Have  at  thy 
heart. 

Juba.     Nay,  then  beware  thy  own,  proud,  barbarous  man ! 
l^Sempronius  falls.     His  guards  surrender. 

Sempronius.     Curse  on  my  stars !  am  I  then  doom'd  to  fall 
By  a  boy's  hand  ?  disfigur'd  in  a  vile 
Numidian  dress,  and  for  a  worthless  woman  ? 
Gods,  I'm  distracted !  this  my  close  of  life  ! 
O  for  a  peal  of  thunder  that  would  make 
Earth,  sea,  and  air,  and  heaven,  and  Cato  tremble  !     \^Dies. 

Juba.     With  what  a  spring  his  furious  soul  broke  loose, 
And  left  the  limbs  still  quivering  on  the  ground ! 
Hence  let  us  carry  off  those  slaves  to  Cato, 
That  we  may  there  at  length  unravel  all 
This  dark  design,  this  mystery  of  fate.  * 


444  DRAMAS. 

SCENE  III. 

\ 

Lucia,    Marcia. 


n 


I 


Lucia.     Sure  'twas  the  clash  of  swords ;  my  troubled  heart 
Is  so  cast  down,  and  sunk  amidst  its  sorrows, 
It  throbs  with  fear,  and  aches  at  every  sound. 

0  Marcia,  should  thy  brothers  for  my  sake  I— 

1  die  away  with  horror  at  the  thought. 
Marcia.     See,  Lucia,  see  !  here's  blood  !  here's  blood  and 

*  murder ! 
Hah  !  a  Numidian  !  heavens  preserve  the  prince ; 
The  face  lies  muflfled  up  within  the  garment. 
But,  hah  !  death  to  my  sight !  a  diadem. 
And  purple  robes  !  0  gods  !  'tis  he  !  tis  he  ! 
Juba,  the  loveliest  youth  that  ever  warm'd 
A  virgin's  heart,  Juba  lies  dead  before  us  ! 

Lucia.     Now,  Marcia,  now  call  up  to  thy  assistance 
Thy  wonted  strength  and  constancy  of  mind ; 
Thou  canst  not  put  it  to  a  greater  trial 

Marcia.     Lucia,  look  there,  and  wonder  at  my  patience. 
Have  I  not  cause  to  rave,  and  beat  my  breast. 
To  rend  my  heart  with  grief,  and  run  distracted  ? 

Lucia.     What  can  I  think  or  say  to  give  thee  comfort  ^ 

Marcia.     Talk  not  of  comfort,  'tis  for  lighter  ills  : 
Behold  a  sight,  that  strikes  all  comfort  dead. 

Enter  Juba  listening, 

I  will  indulge  my  sorrows,  and  give  way 

To  all  the  pangs  and  fury  of  despair, 

That  man,  the  best  of  men,  deserv'd  it  from  me. 

Juba.     What  do  I  hear  ^  and  was  the  false  Sempronius 
The  best  of  men  ?     O  had  I  fallen  like  him, 


1 

ce      m\ 

m 


C  A  T  O  .  4^.  } 

And  could  have  thus  been  mourn'd,  I  had  been  happy ! 

Lucia.     Here  will  I  stand,  companion  in  thy  woes, 
And  help  thee  with  my  tears ;  when  I  behold 
A  loss  like  thine,  I  half  forget  my  own. 

Marcia.     'Tis  not  in  fate  to  ease  my  tortur'd  breast. 
This  empty  world,  to  me  a  jc/less  desert, 
Has  nothing  left  to  make  poor  Marcia  happy. 

JuBA.     I'm  on  the  rack !  was  he  so  near  her  heart  ? 

Marcia.     Oh  !  he  was  all  made  up  of  love  and  charms, 
Whatever  maid  could  wish,  or  man  admire  : 
Delight  of  every  eye  !  when  he  appear'd, 
A  secret  pleasure  glad'ned  all  that  saw  him ; 
But  when  he  talk'd,  the  proudest  Roman  blush'd 
To  hear  his  virtues,  and  old  age  grew  wise. 

Juba.     I  shall  run  mad — 

Marcia.  0  Juba  !  Juba  !  Juba ! 

Juba.     What  means  that  voice  ?  did  she  not  call  on  Juba  T 

Marcia.     Why  do  I  think  on  what  he  was  !  he's  dead ! 
He's  dead,  and  never  knew  how  much  I  lov'd  him. 
Lucia,  who  knows  but  his  poor  bleeding  heart, 
Amidst  its  agonies,  remember'd  Marcia, 
And  the  last  words  he  utter'd  call'd  me  cruel ! 
Alas  !  he  knew  not,  hapless  youth,  he  knew  not 
Marcia's  whole  soul  was  full  of  love  and  Juba. 

Juba.     Where  am  I !  do  I  live  !  or  am  indeed 
What  Marcia  thinks  !  all  is  Elysium  round  me  ! 

Marcia.     Ye  dear  remains  of  the  most  lov'd  of  men  ! 
Nor  modesty  nor  virtue  here  forbid 
A  last  embrace,  while  thus — 

Juba.  — See,  Marcia,  see, 

[  Throwing  himself  before  hi  'f 
The  happy  Juba  lives  !  he  lives  to  catch 


446 


DRAMAS. 


n 


That  dear  embrace,  and  to  return  it  too 
With  mutual  warmth  and  eagerness  of  love. 

Marcia.     With  pleasure  and  amaze,*  I  stand  transported ! 
Sure  'tis  a  dream !  dead  and  alive  at  once  ! 
If  thou  art  Juba,  who  lies  there  ? 

JuBA.  A  wretch 

Disguis'd  like  Juba,  on  a  curs'd  design. 
The  tale  is  long,  nor  have  I  heard  it  out. 
Thy  father  knows  it  all.     I  could  not  bear 
To  leave  thee  in  the  neighbourhood  of  death, 
But  flew,  in  all  the  haste  of  love,  to  find  thee : 
I  found  thee  weeping,  and  confess  this  once, 
Am  rapt  with  joy  to  see  my  Marcia's  tears. 

Marcia.     I've  been  surprised  in  an  unguarded  hour, 
But  must  not  now  go  back  :  the  love,  that  lay 
Half  smother'd  in  my  breast,  has  broke  through  all 
Its  weak,  restraints,  and  burns  in  its  full  lustre, 
I  cannot,  if  I  would,  conceal  it  from  thee. 

Juba.     I'm  lost  in  ccstacy !  and  dost  thou  love, 
Thou  charming  maid  ? 

Marcia.     And  dost  thou  live  to  ask  it  ? 

Juba.     This,  this  is  life  indeed !  life  worth  preserving, 
Such  life  as  Juba  never  felt  till  now  ! 

Marcia.     Believe  me,  prince,  before  I  thought  thee  dead, 
I  did  not  know  myself  how  much  I  lov'd  thee. 

Juba.     0  fortunate  mistake  ! 

Marcia.  0  happy  Marcia ! 

Juba.     My  joy  !  my  best  beloved  !  my  only  wish  ! 
How  shall  I  speak  the  transport  of  my  soul  ? 


a 


*  Amaze,  for  amazement ;  a  Hberty  in  which  the  poets  of  that  time  in- 
dulged themselves.     So  Pope : 


In  Tot'nam  fields,  the  brethren,  with  amazo 
Prick  all  their  ears  up,  and  forget  to  graze." 

DuNCiAD,  b.  ii.  261. 


Jk 


CATo.  ♦  447 

Marcia,     Lucia,  thy  arm  !  oh  let  me  rest  upon  it ! — 
The  vital  blood,  that  had  forsook  my  heart, 
Returns  again  in  such  tumultuous  tides, 
It  quite  o'ercomes  me.     Lead  to  my  apartment. — 
O  prince  !  I  blush  to  think  what  I  have  said 
But  fate  has  wrested  the  confession  from  me ; 
Go  on,  and  prosper  in  the  paths  of  honour, 
Thy  virtue  will  excuse  my  passion  for  thee. 
And  make  the  gods  propitious  to  our  love. 

JuBA.     I  am  so  blest,  I  fear  'tis  all  a  dream 
Fortune,  thou  now  hast  made  amends  for  all 
Thy  past  unkindness.     I  absolve  my  stars. 
What  though  Numidia  add  her  conquer' d  towns 
And  provinces  to  swell  the  victor's  triumph  ! 
Juba  will  never  at  his  fate  repine ; 
Let  Caesar  have  the  world,  if  Marcia's  mine. 

SCENE    IV. 
4  Ma/rch  at  a  Distance. 

Cato,  Lucius.  ^ 

Lucius.     I  stand  astonisht !  what,  the  bold  Sempronius  I 
That  still  broke  foremost  through  the  crowd  of  patriots, 
As  with  a  hurricane  of  zeal  transported, 
And  virtuous  even  to  nfedness — - 

Cato.  Trust  me,  Lucius, 

Our  civil  discords  have  produced  such  crimes. 
Such  monstrous  crimes,  I  am  surprised  at  nothing. 
— 0  Lucius  !  I  am  si  3k  of  this  bad  world  ! 
The  day-light  and  the  sun  grow  painful  to  me. " 


t^^ 


V 


77-^  cfxty  liqht  and  the  sun.    "  Tcedet  coeli  convexa  tueri." 

YiRG.  vEneid,  lib.  iv.  451, 


448 


.DRAMAS. 


Enter  Fortius. 


I 


I 


But  see  where  Fortius  comes  !  what  means  this  haste  ? 
"Why  are  thy  looks  thus  changed  ? 

Fortius.  My  heart  is  griev'd 

I  bring  such  news  as  will  afflict  my  father. 

Cato.     Has  Caesar  shed  more  Roman  blood  ? 

Fortius.  Not  so. 

The  traitor  Syphax,  as  within  the  square 
He  exercised  his  troops,  the  signal  given, 
Flew  off  at  once  with  his  Numidian  horse 
To  the  south  gate,  where  Marcus  holds  the  watch. 
I  saw,  and  call'd  to  stop  him,  but  in  vain, 
He  toss'd  his  arm  aloft,  and  proudly  told  me, 
He  would  not  stay  and  perish  like  Sempronius. 

Cato.     Ferfidious  men !  but  haste,  my  son,  and  see 
Thy  brother  Marcus  acts  a  Roman's  part.      \^Exit  PoHius 
— Lucius,  the  torrent  bears  too  hard  upon  me  : 
Justice  gives  way  to  force :  the  conquer'd  world 
Is  Caesar's :  Cato  has  no  business  in  it. 

Lucius.     While  pride,  oppression,  and  injustice  reign, 
The  world  will  still  demand  her  Cato's  presence. 
In  pity  to  mankind,  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  reconcile  thy  mighty  soul  to  life. 

Cato.     Would  Lucius  have^e  live  to  swell  the  number 
Of  Caesar's  slaves,  or  by  a  base  submission 
Give  up  the  cause  of  Rome,  and  own  a  tyrant  ? 

Lucius.     The  victor  never  will  impose  on  Cato 
Ungen'rous  terms.     His  enemies  confess 
The  virtues  of  humanity  are  Caesar's.  • 

Cato.     Curse  on  his  virtues  !  they've  undone  his  country 
Such  popular  humanity  is  treason 


^^6") 


I 


CATO.  449 

But  soe  young  Juba  !  the  good  youth  appears 
Full  of  the  guilt  of  his  perfidious  subjects. 

Lucius.     Alas  !  poor  prince  !  his  fate  deserves  "compassioa 

Enter  Juba. 

Juba.     I  blush,  and  am  confounded  to  appear 
Before  thy  presence,  Cato. 

Cato.  What's  thy  crime  ? 

Juba.     I'm  a  Numidian. 

Cato.  And  a  brave  one  too. 

Thou  hast  a  Roman  soul. 

Juba.  Hast  thou  not  heard 

Of  my  false  countrymen  ? 

Gato.  Alas  !  young  prince, 

Falsehood  and  fraud  shoot  up  in  every  soil, 
The  product  of  all  climes — Bome  has  its  Caesars. 

Juba.     'Tis  gen'rous  thus  to  comfort  the  distrest. 

Cato.     'Tis  just  to  give  applause  where  'tis  deserv'd ; 
Thy  virtue,  prince,  has  stood  the  test  of  fortune, 
Like  purest  gold,  that,  tortur'd  in  the  furnace, 
Comes  out  more  bright,  and  brings  forth  all  its  weight. 

Juba.     What  shall  I  answer  thee  ?  my  ravish'd  heart 
O'erflows  with  secret  joy  :  I'd  rather  gain 
Thy  praise,  0  Cato  !  than  Numidia's  empire. 

Re-enter  Fortius 

Fortius.     Misfortune  on  misfortune  !  grief  on  grief  1 
My  brother  Marcus — 

Cato.     Hah  !  what  has  he  done  ? 
Has  he  forsook  his  post  ?  has  he  given  way  ? 
Did  he  look  tamely  on,  and  let  'em  pass? 


4?0 


DRAMAS. 


Fortius.     Scarce  had  I  left  my  father,  but  I  met  him 
Borne  on  the  shields  of  his  surviving  soldiers, 
Breathless  and  pale,  and  cover'd  o'er  with  wounds. 
Long  at  the  head  of  his  few  faithful  friends, 
He  stood  the  shock  of  a  whole  host  of  foes ; 
Till,  obstinately  brave,  and  bent  on  death, 
Opprest  with  multitudes,  he  greatly  fell. 

Cato.     I'm  satisfy' d. 

Fortius.  Nor  did  he  fall  before 

His  sword  had  pierc'd  through  the  false  heart  of  Syphax. 
Yonder  he  lies.     I  saw  the  hoary  traitor 
Grin  in  the  pangs  of  death,  and  bite  the  ground. 

Cato.     Thanks  to  the  gods  !  my  boy  has  done  his  duty 
— Fortius,  when  I  am  dead,  be  sure  thou  place 
His  urn  near  mine. 

Fortius.     Long  may  they  keep  asunder ! 

Lucius.     0  Cato  !  arm  thy  soul  with  all  its  patience ; 
See  where  the  corpse  of  thy  dead  son  approaches ! 
The  citizens  and  senators,  alarm'd, 
Have  gather'd  round  it,  and  attend  it  weeping. 


Cato,  meeting  the  corpse. 

Welcome,  my  son !  here  lay  him  down,  my  friends, 
Full  in  my  sight,  that  I  may  view  at  leisure 
The  bloody  corse,  and  count  those  glorious  wounds. 
— How  beautiful  is  deattywhen  earn'd  by  virtue  I 
Who  would  not  be  that  youth  ?  what  pity  is  it 
That  we  can  die  but  once  to  serve  our  country ! 
— Why  sits  this  sadness  on  your  brows,  my  friends  ? 

I  slimilrjjipvp,  bblS^^'r!  ^f  nq,tn^sjTfvns^  had  stood 

Secure»jind_flmmsh'dJji-aK4iivil  war.. 


CATO.  451 

— Fortius,  behold  thy  brother,  and  remember 

Thy  life_is_not  thy  own,  when  "Rome  demands  it.  /  \/ 

JuBA.     Was  ever  man  like  this  !  [Aside. 

Cato.  Alas  !  my  friends  ! 

Why  mourn  you  thus  ?  let  not  a  private  loss 
Afflict  your  hearts.     'Tis  Eome  requires  our  tears. 
The  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  empire, 
The  nurse  of  heroes,  the  delight  of  gods, 
That  humbled  the  proud  tyrants  of  the  earth, 
And  set  the  nations  free,  Rome  is  no  more. 
0  liberty  !  0  virtue  !  0  my  country  ! 

JuBA.     Behold  that  upright  man !  Eome  fills  his  eyes 
With  tears,  that  flow'd  not  o'er  his  own  dead  son. 

[Aside. 

Cato.     Whate'er  the  Roman  virtue  has  subdu'd. 
The  sun's  whole  course,  the  day  and  year,  are  Caesar's. 
For  him  the  self-devoted  Decii  dy'd, 
The  Fabii  fell,  and  the  great  Scipios  conquer'd ; 
Even  Fompey  fought  for  Caesar.    Oh !  my  friends  ! 
How  is  the  toil  of  fate,  the  work  of  ages. 
The  Roman  empire  fallen  !  0  curst  ambition ! 
Fallen  into  Caesar's  hands  !  our  great  forefathers 
Had  left  him  nought  to  conquer  but  his  country. 

JuBA.     While  Cato  lives,  Caesar  will  blush  to  see 
Mankind  enslaved,  and  be  ashamed  of  empire. 

Cato.     Caesar  ashamed  !  has  not  he  seen  Fharsalia  ? 

Lucius.     Cato,  'tis  time  thou  save  thyself  and  us. 

Cato.     Lose  not  a  thought  on  me,  I'm  out  of  danger. 
Heaven  will  not  leave  me  in  the  victor's  hand. 
Csesar  shall  never  say  I  conquer'd  Cato. 
But,  oh !  my  friends,  your  safety  fills  my  heart 
With  anxious  thoughts :  a  thousand  secret  terrors 


452 


DRAMAS. 


Rise  in  my  soul :  how  shall  I  save  my  friends ! 
'Tis  now,  0  Coesar,  I  begin  to  fear  thee. 

Lucius.     Caesar  has  mercy,  if  we  ask  it  of  him. 

Cato.     Then  ask  it,  I  conjure  you  !  let  him  know 
Whate'er  was  done  against  him,  Cato  did  it. 
Add,  if  you  please,  that  I  request  it  of  him. 
The  virtue  of  my  friends  may  pass  unpunish'd 
— Juba,  my  heart  is  troubled  for  thy  sake. 
Should  I  advise  thee  to  regain  Numidia, 
Or  seek  the  conqueror  ? — 

Juba.  If  I  forsake  thee 

Whilst  I  have  life,  may  heaven  abandon  Juba ! 

Cato.     Thy  virtues,  prince,  if  I  foresee  aright, 
Will  one  day  make  thee  great ;  at  Rome,  hereafter, 
'Twill  be  no  crime  to  have  been  Cato's  friend. 
Fortius,  draw  near !  my  son,  thou  oft  hast  seen 
Thy  sire  engaged  in  a  corrupted  state. 
Wrestling  with  vice  and  faction  :  now  thou  seest  me 
Spent,  overpower'd,  despairing  of  success  ; 
Let  me  advise  thee  to  retreat  betimes 
To  thy  paternal  seat,  the  Sabine  field, 
Where  the  great  Censor  toil'd  with  his  own  hands, 
And  all  our  frugal  ancestors  were  blest 
In  humble  virtues,  and  a  rural  life. 
There  live  retired,  pray  for  the  peace  of  Rome : 
Content  thyself  to  be  obscurely  good. 
When  vice  prevails,  and  impious  men  bear  sway, 
The  post  of  honour  is  a  private  station. 

P0K.TIUS.     I  hope  my  father  does  not  recommend 
A  life  to  Fortius  that  he  scorns  himself. 

Cato.     Farewel,  my  friends  !  if  there  be  any  of  you 
Who  dare  not  trust  the  victor's  clemency, 


n 


c  A  T  o .  •  453 

Know,  there  are  ships  prepared  by  my  command, 
(Their  sails  already  opening  to  the  winds) 
That  shall  convey  you  to  the  wish'd-for  port. 
Is  there  aught  else,  my  friends,  I  can  do  for  you  ? 
The  conqueror  draws  near.     Once  more  farewell 
If  e'er  we  meet  hereafter,  we  shall  meet 
In  happier  climes,  and  on  a  safer  shore. 
Where  Caesar  never  shall  approach  us  more. 

{^Pointing  to  his  dead  son. 
There  the  brave  youth,  with  love  of  virtue  fired, 
Who  greatly  in  his  country's  cause  expired. 
Shall  know  he  conquer'd.     The  firm  patriot  there 
(Who  made  the  welfare  of  mankind  his  care) 
Though  still,  by  faction,  vice,  and  fortune,  crost. 
Shall  find  the  gen'rous  labour  was  not  lost. 


ACT  V. 
SCENE   I 

Cato  solus^  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  posture:  in  his  hand  Platans 
Book  on  the  Jinmortality  of  the  Soul.  A  drawn  sword  on  the 
table  by  him. 

It  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reason'st  well ! — 

Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality  ? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 

Of  falling  into  nought  ?  why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 

'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us ; 

'Tis  heaven  itself,  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 


454 


DRAMAS 


Eternity  !  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought  ! 

Through  what  variety  of  untry'd  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass 

The  wide,  th'  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me ; 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  power  above  us, 

(And  that  there  is  all  nature  cries  aloud 

Through  all  her  works)  he  must  delight  in  virtue ; 

And  that  which  he  delights  in,  must  be  happ}'-. 

But  when  !  or  where  ! — This  world  was  made  for  Caesar. 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures — This  must  end  'em. 

[^Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Thus  am  I  doubly  arm'd :  my  death  and  life. 
My  bane  and  antidote  are  both  before  me : 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end  ; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  nature  sink  in  years. 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amidst  the  wars  of  elements, 
The  wrecks  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds 

What  means  this  heaviness  that  hangs  upon  me  ? 
This  lethargy  that  creeps  through  all  my  senses  ? 
Nature  oppress'd,  and  harass'd  out  with  care, 
Sinks  down  to  rest.     This  once  I'll  favour  her, 
That  my  awaken'd  soul  may  take  her  flight, 
Renew'd  in  all  her  strength,  and  fresh  with  life, 
An  ofl"ering  fit  for  heaven.     Let  guilt  or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest ;  Cato  knows  neither  of  'em, 
Indifferent  in  his  choice  to  sleep  or  die. 


c  A  T  o  .  455 

SCENE  II. 

Cato,  Fortius. 

Cato.     But,  hah  !  how's  this,  my  son  ?  why  this  intrusion  ? 
Were  not  my  orders  that  I  would  be  private  ? 
Why  am  I  disobey 'd  ? 

PoRTius,  Alas  !  my  father  ! 

What  means  this  sword  ?  this  instrument  of  death  ? 
Let  me  convey  it  hence  ! 

Cato.  Rash  youth,  forbear  ! 

Fortius.     0  let  the  prayers,  th'  entreaties  of  your  friends, 
Their  tears,  their  common  danger,  wrest  it  from  you. 

Cato.    Wouldst  thou  betray  me  ?  wouldst  thou  give  me  up 
A  slave,  a  captive,  into  Ceesar's  hands  1 
Retire,  and  learn  obedience  to  a  father 
Or  know,  young  man  ! — 

Fortius.  Look  not  thus  sternly  on  me  , 

You  know  I'd  rather  die  than  disobey  you. 

Cato.     'Tis  well !  again  I'm  master  of  myself. 
Now,  Caesar,  let  thy  troops  beset  our  gates. 
And  bar  each  avenue,  thy  gathering  fleets 
O'erspread  the  sea,  and  stop  up  every  port ; 
Cato  shall  open  to  himself  a  passage. 
And  mock  thy  hopes — 

Fortius.  0,  sir  !  forgive  your  son, 

Whose  grief  hangs  heavy  on  him  !  0  my  fath  ir ! 
How  am  I  sure  it  is  not  the  last  time 
I  e'er  shall  call  you  so  !  be  not  displeased, 
O  be  not  angry  with  me  whilst  I  weep. 
And,  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart  beseech  you 
To  quit  the  dreadful  purpose  of  your  soul  I 


456 


DRAMAS. 


I 


Cato.     Thou  hast  been  ever  good  and  dutiful. 

[^Embracing  him 
Weep  not,  my  son.     All  will  be  well  again. 
The  righteous  gods,  whom  I  have  sought  to  please, 
Will  succour  Cato,  and  preserve  his  children. 

Fortius.     Your  words  give  comfort  to  my  drooping  heart 

Cato.     Fortius,  thou  mayst  rely  upon  my  conduct. 
Thy  father  will  not  act  what  misbecomes  him. 
But  go,  my  son,  and  see  if  aught  be  wanting 
Among  thy  father's  friends ;  see  them  embarked ; 
And  tell  me  if  the  winds  and  seas  befriend  them. 
My  soul  is  quite  weighed  down  with  care,  and  asks 
The  soft  refreshment  of  a  moment's  sleep. 

Fortius.     My  thoughts  are  more  at  ease,  my  heart  revives, 


I 


SOENj:    III. 
Fortius,  Marcia. 

Fortius.     0  Marcia,  0  my  sister,  still  there's  hope ! 
Our  father  will  not  cast  away  a  life 
So  needful  to  us  all,  and  to  his  country. 
He  is  retired  to  rest,  arid  seems  to  cherish 
Thoughts  full  of  peace.     He  has  dispatch'd  me  hence 
With  orders  that  bespeak  a  mind  composed, 
And  studious  for  the  safety  of  his  friends. 
Marcia,  take  care  that  none  disturb  his  slumbers. 

Marcia.     0  ^e  immortal  powers,  that  guard  the  just, 
Watch  round  his  couch,  and  soften  his  repose, 
Banish  his  sorrows,  and  becalm  his  soul 
With  easy  dreams ;  remember  all  his  virtues  ! 
And  show  mankind  that  goodness  is  your  care. 


c  A  T  o  457 

SCENE    IV. 
Lucia,  Marcia. 

Lucia.     Where  is  your  father,  Marcia,  where  is  Cato  ? 

Marcia.     Lucia,  speak  low,  he  is  retired  to  rest. 
Lucia,  I  feel  a  gently-dawning  hope 
Rise  in  my  soul.     We  shall  be  happy  still. 

Lucia.     Alas  !  I  tremble  when  I  think  on  Cato, 
In  every  view,  in  every  thought  I  tremble  ! 
Cato  is  stern,  and  awful  as  a  god, 
^e  knows  not  how  to  wink  at  human  frailty, 
Or  pardon  weakness  that  he  never  felt. 

Marcia.     Though  stern  and  awful  to  the  foes  of  Rome, 
He  is  all  goodness,  Lucia,  always  mild. 
Compassionate,  and  gentle  to  his  friends. 
Fill'd  with  domestic  tenderness,  the  best, 
The  kindest  father  !  I  have  ever  found  him 
Easy,  and  good,  and  bounteous  to  my  wishes. 

Lucia.     'Tis  his  consent  alone  can  make  us  blest. 
Marcia,  we  both  are  equally  involv'd 
In  the  same  intricate,  perplext  distress. 
The  cruel  hand  of  fate,  that  has  destroy'd 
Thy  brother  Marcus,  whom  we  both  lament — 

Marcia.     And  ever  shall  lament,  unhappy  youth  ! 

Lucia.     Has  set  my  soul  at  large,  and  now  I  stand 
Loose  of  my  vow.     But  who  knows  Cato's  thoughts  ? 
Who  knows  how  yet  he  may  dispose  of  Fortius, 
Gr  how  he  has  determin'd  of  thyself  ? 

Marcia.     Let  him  but  live  !  commit  the  rest  to  heaven. 

VOL.  I.— 20 


458  DRAMAS 


Enter  Lucius. 


^ 


Lucius.     Sweet  are  the  slumbers  of  the  virtuous  man  I 

0  Marcia,  I  have  seen  thy  godlike  father : 
Some  power  invisible  supports  his  soul. 
And  bears  it  up  in  all  its  wonted  greatness. 
A  kind  refreshing  sleep  is  fallen  upon  him : 

1  saw  him  stretch'd  at  ease,  his  fancy  lost 

In  pleasing  dreams ;  as  I  drew  near  his  couch, 

He  smiled,  and  cry'd,  Caesar  thou  canst  not  hurt  me. 

Marcia.     His   mind   still  labours   with    some    dreadful 
thought, 

Lucius.     Lucia,  why  all  this  grief,  these  floods  of  sorrow  ? 
Dry  up  thy  tears,  my  child,  we  all  are  safe 
While  Cato  lives — his  presence  will  protect  us. 

Enter  Juba. 

JuBA.     Lucius,  the  horsemen  are  return'd  from  viewing 
The  number,  strength,  and  posture  of  our  foes. 
Who  now  encamp  within  a  short  hour's  march. 
On  the  high  point  of  yon  bright  western  tower, 
We  ken  them  from  afar,  the  setting  sun 
Plays  on  their  shining  arms  and  burnish'd  helmets, 
And  covers  all  the  field  with  gleams  of  fire. 

Lucius.*    Marcia,  'tis  time  we  should  awake  thy  fatheri 
Caesar  is  still  disposed  to  give  us  terms. 
And  waits  at  distance  till  he  hears  from  Cato. 

Enter   Fortius. 

Fortius,  thy  looks  speak  somewhat  of  importance. 
What  tidings  dost  thou  bring  ?  methinks  I  see 
Unusual  gladness  sparkling  in  thy  eyes. 


c  A  T  o .  .  459 

Fortius.     As  I  was  hasting  to  the  port,  where  now 
My  father's  friends,  impatient  for  a  passage, 
Accuse  the  lingering  winds,  a  sail  arrived 
From  Pompey's  son,  who  through  the  realms  of  Spain 
Calls  out  for  vengeance  on  his  father's  death, 
And  rouses  the  whole  nation  up  to  arms. 
Were  Cato  at  their  head,  once  more  might  Rome 
Assert  her  rights,  and  claim  her  liberty. 
But,  hark !  what  means  that  groan  !  0  give  me  way. 
And  let  me  fly  into  my  father's  presence.    [Exit  Fortius, 

Lucius.     Cato,  amidst  his  slumbers,  thinks  on  Rome, 
And  in  the  wild  disorder  of  his  soul 
Mourns  o'er  his  country. — Hah  !  a  second  groan  — 
Heaven  guard  us  all — 

Marcia.  Alas  !  'tis  not  the  voice 

Of  one  who  sleeps  I  'tis  agonizing  pain, 
'Tis  death  is  in  that  sound — 

Re-enter  Fortius. 

Fortius.  0  sight  of  woe ! 

0  Marcia,  what  we  fear'd  is  come  to  pass ! 
Cato  is  fallen  upon  his  sword — 

Lucius.  0  Fortius, 

Hide  all  the  horrors  of  thy  mournful  tale. 
And  let  us  guess  the  rest. 

Fortius.  I've  rais'd  him  up, 

And  placed  him  in  his  chair,  where,  pale  and  faint, 
He  gasps  for  breath,  and,  as  his  life  flows  from  him, 
Demands  to  see  his  friends.     His  servants  weeping, 
Obsequious  to  his  orders,  bear  him  hither. 

\_The  back  scene  opens,  and  discovers  Cato, 


4fi0  DRAMAS. 


n 


Marcia.     0  heaven  assist  me  in  this  dreadful  hour 
To  pay  the  last  sad  duties  to  my  father. 

JuBA.     These  are  thy  triumphs,  thy  exploits,  0  Caesar  I 

Lucius.     Now  is  Rome  fallen  indeed  ! — • 

\_Cato  brought  forward  in  his  chair. 

Cato.  Here  set  me  down — 

Fortius  come  near  me — are  my  friends  embark'd  ? 
Can  any  thing  be  thought  of  for  their  service  ? 
Whilst  I  yet  live  let  me  not  live  in  vain. 
— 0  Lucius,  art  thou  here  ? — thou  art  too  good ! — 
Let  this  our  friendship  live  between  our  children ; 
Make  Fortius  happy  in  thy  daughter  Lucia. 
Alas  !  poor  man,  he  weeps ! — Marcia,  my  daughter — 
—  0  bend  me  forward ! — Juba  loves  thee,  Marcia. 
A  senator  of  Rome,  while  Rome  survived. 
Would  not  have  match'd  his  daughter  with  a  king. 
But  Cassar's  arms  have  thrown  down  all  distinction ; 
Whoe'er  is  brave  and  virtuous,  is  a  Roman — 
— I'm  sick  to  death — 0  when  shall  I  get  loose 
From  this  vain  world,  th'  abode  of  guilt  and  sorrow 
— And  yet  methinks  a  beam  of  light  breaks  in 
On  my  departing  soul.     Alas  !  I  fear 
Fve  been  too  hasty.*  0  ye  powers  that  search 
The  heart  of  man,  and  weigh  his  inmost  thoughts, 
If  I  have  done  amiss,  impute  it  not ! — 
The  best  may  err,  but  you  are  good,  and — oh!  [Dies. 

Lucius.     There  fled  the  greatest  soul  that  ever  warm'd 
A  Roman  breast.     O  Cato  !  0  my  friend  ! 
Thy  will  shall  be  religiously  observ'd. 

''Alas!  I  fear  I've  been  too  hasty.  This  sentiment  is  not  in  character; 
)ut  the  amiable  author,  ever  attentive  to  the  interests  of  religion  and  vir 
.ue,  chose,  fo^  the  sake  of  these,  to  violate  decorum. 


HI 


m 


CATO  461 

But  let  us  bear  this  awful  corpse  to  Caesar, 
And  lay  it  in  his  sight,  that  it  may  stand 
A  fence  betwixt  us  and  the  victor's  wrath ; 
Cato,  tho'  dead,  shall  still  protect  his  friends. 

From  hence,  let  fierce  contending  nations  know 
What  dire  effects  from  civil  discord  flow. 
'Tis  this  that  shakes  our  country  with  alarms, 
And  gives  up  Rome  a  prey  to  Roman  arms, 
Produces  fraud,  and  cruelty,  and  strife, 
And  robs  the  guilty  world  of  Gate's  life. 


^ 


EPILOaUE. 


BY    DR.    GARTH. 


SPOKEN    BY    MRS.    PORTER. 


What  odd  fantastic  things  we  women  do  ! 

"Who  wou'd  not  listen  when  young  lovers  woo  ? 

But  die  a  maid,  yet  have  the  choice  of  two  ! 

Ladies  are  often  cruel  to  their  cost ; 

To  give  you  pain,  themselves  they  punish  most. 

Vows  of  virginity  should  well  be  weigh'd ; 

Too  oft  they're  cancell'd,  tho'  in  convents  made. 

Would  you  revenge  such  rash  resolves — ^you  may ; 

Be  spiteful — and  believe  the  thing  we  say ; 

We  hate  you  when  you're  easily  said  nay. 

How  needless,  if  you  knew  us,  were  your  fears  ! 

Let  love  have  eyes,  and  beauty  will  have  ears. 

Our  hearts  are  form'd  as  you  yourselves  would  chuse, 

Too  proud  to  ask,  too  humble  to  refuse  : 

We  give  to  merit,  and  to  wealth  we  sell ; 

He  sighs  with  most  success  that  settles  well. 

The  woes  of  wedlock  with  the  joys  we  mix ; 

'Tis  best  repenting  in  a  coach  and  six. 

Blame  not  our  conduct,  since  we  but  pursue 
Those  lively  lessons  we  have  learn'd  from  you : 


I 


( 


CATO.  463 

Your  breasts  no  more  the  fire  of  beauty  warms, 
But  wicked  wealth  usurps  the  power  of  charms , 
What  pains  to  get  the  gaudy  thing  you  hate, 
To  swell  in  show,  and  be  a  wretch  in  state ! 
At  plays  you  ogle,  at  the  ring  you  bow ; 
Even  churches  are  no  sanctuaries  now  : 
There,  golden  idols  all  your  vows  receive, 
She  is  no  goddess  that  has  nought  to  give. 
Oh,  may  once  more  the  happy  age  appear, 
When  words  were  artless,  and  the  thoughts  sincere 
When  gold  and  grandeur  were  unenvy'd  things. 
And  courts  less  coveted  than  groves  and  springs. 
Love  then  shall  only  mourn  when  truth  complains, 
And  constancy  feel  transport  in  its  chains ; 
Sighs  with  success  their  own  soft  anguish  tell, 
And  eyes  shall  utter  what  the  lips  conceal : 
Virtue  again  to  its  bright  station  climb, 
And  beauty  fear  no  enemy  bflt  time ; 
The  fair  shall  listen  to  desert  alone, 
And  every  Lucia  find  a  Cato's  son. 


TO  HER  ROYAL  HIGHNESS 

THE     PKINCESS     OF     WALES, 

WITH  THE  TEAGEDT  OF  CATO.— Nov.  1714. 

The  muse  that  oft,  with  sacred  raptures  fir'd, 
Has  gen'rous  thoughts  of  liberty  inspir'd, 
And,  boldly  rising  for  Britannia's  laws, 
Engaged  great  Cato  in  her  country's  cause," 
On  you  submissive  waits,  with  hopes  assur'd, 
By  whom  the  mighty  blessing  stands  secur'd, 
And  all  the  glories,  that  our  age  adorn, 
Are  promis'd  to  a  people  yet  unborn. 

No  longer  shall  the  widow'd  land  bemoan 
A  broken  lineage,  and  a  doubtful  throne ; 
But  boast  her  royal  progeny's  increase, 
And  count  the  pledges  of  her  future  peace. 
0  born  to  strengthen  and  to  grace  our  isle  ! 
While  you,  fair  Princess,  in  your  offspring  smile, 

*  Engaged  great  Cato  in  her  country's  cause.  Some  little  disingenmty 
has  been  chai'a;ed  on  the  author,  from  this  line  (see  Pope's  Works,  Ep.  to 
Aug.  V.  215,  Mr.  Warburton's  edition),  nor  can  I  wholly  acquit  him  of  it. 
The  truth,  however,  seems  to  be  this:  Mr.  A.  had  no  party-views  in  com- 
posing this  tragedy ;  and  he  was  only  solicitous  (Avhatever  his  friends 
might  be),  to  secure  the  suffrage  of  both  parties,  when  it  was  brought  on 
the  stage.  But  the  public  would  only  see  it  in  a  political  light:  and  waa 
it  to  be  wondered  at,  that  a  poet,  in  a  dedication  too,  sliould  take  advan- 
tage of  the  general  voice,  to  make  a  merit  of  his  imputed  patriotism,  with 
the  new  family  ?  How  spotless  must  that  muse  be,  that,  in  passing  through 
a  court,  had  only  contracted  this  slight  stain,  even  in  the  opinion  of  so  se- 
vere a  censor  and  casuist  as  Mr.  Pope ! 


/ 


c  A  T  o .  '  465 

Supplying  charms  to  the  succeeding  age, 
Each  heavenly  daughter's  triumphs  we  presage  \ 
Already  see  th'  illustrious  youths  complain, 
And  pity  monarchs  doom'd  to  sigh  in  vain. 

Thou  too,  the  darling  of  our  fond  desires, 
Whom  Albion,  opening  wide  her  arms,  requires 
With  manly  valour  and  attractive  air 
Shalt  quell  the  fierce  and  captivate  the  fair. 
0  England's  younger  hope  !  in  whom  conspire 
The  mother's  sweetness,  and  the  father's  fire ! 
For  thee,  perhaps,  even  now,  of  kingly  race, 
Some  dawning  beauty  blooms  in  every  grace, 
Some  Carolina,  to  heaven's  dictates  true, 
Who,  while  the  sceptr'd  rivals  vainly  sue. 
Thy  inborn  worth  with  conscious  eyes  shall  see, 
And  slight  th'  imperial  diadem  for  thee. 

Pleas'd  with  the  prospect  of  successive  reigns, 
The  tuneful  tribe  no  more  in  daring  strains 
Shall  vindicate,  with  pious  fears  opprest, 
Endanger'd  rights,  and  liberty  distrest : 
To  milder  sounds  each  muse  shall  tune  the  lyre. 
And  gratitude,  and  faith  to  kings  inspire. 
And  filial  love ;  bid  impious  discord  cease. 
And  soothe  the  madding  factions  into  peace ; 
Or  rise  ambitious  in  more  lofty  lays. 
And  teach  the  nation  their  new  monarch's  praise, 
Describe  his  awful  look,  and  godlike  mind, 
And  Caesar's  power  with  Cato's  virtue  join'd. 

Meanwhile,  bright  Princess,  who,  with  graceful  ease 
And  native  majesty,  are  form'd  to  please. 
Behold  those  arts  with  a  propitious  eye, 
That  suppliant  to  their  great  protectress  fly  I 
VOL.  I.— 20* 


466  DRAMAS. 

Then  stall  they  triumph,  and  the  British  stage 
Improve  her  manners  and  refine  her  rage, 
More  noble  characters  expose  to  view. 
And  draw  her  finisht  heroines  from  you. 

Nor  you  the  kind  indulgence  will  refuse, 
Skill'd  in  the  labours  of  the  deathless  muse : 
The  deathless  muse  with  undiminish'd  rays 
Through  distant  times  the  lovely  dame  conveys 
To  Gloriana  Waller's  harp  was  strung ; 
The  queen  still  shines,  because  the  poet  sung. 
Even  all  those  graces,  in  your  frame  combin'd, 
The  common  fate  of  mortal  charms  may  find ; 
(Content  our  short-lived  praises  to  engage, 
The  joy  and  wonder  of  a  single  age,) 
Unless  some  poet  in  a  lasting  song 
To  late  posterity  their  fame  prolong, 
Instruct  our  sons  the  radiant  form  to  prize, 
And  see  your  beauty  with  their  fathers'  eyes. 


POEMATA, 


INTRODUCTOEY    KEMAEK3. 

"The  following  Latin  poems  are,  in  tlieir  kind,  excellent.  They  are  the 
letter  worth  reading,  as  they  show  with  what  care  our  young  aul'hor  had 
studied  the  prince  of  the  Latin  poets ;  and  from  what  source  he  afterwards 
derived,  what  a  certain  writer  calls,  a  little  whimsically  indeed,  but,  I 
think,  not  unhapily,  his  sweet  Virgilian  prose.  This  Virgilianism,  if  I  may 
so  speak,  consists  in  opening  a  subject  by  degrees ;  in  presenting  it,  first, 
in  a  few  and  simple  terms,  and  then  enlarging  and  brightening  it  by  a  more 
distinct  and  exquisite  expr^iisiin,  Mil  ihA  0«»sti  ption  becomes,  as  it  were, 
full-Mown^  and  is  set  before  ws  m  all  its  grace  and  beauty.  With  this 
gradual  extension  of  a  sentiment,  or  image,  is  joined  an  improvement  in 
the  rhythm.  The  ear  is  consulted,  as  well  as  the  imagination ;  and  the 
hai'mony  of  numbers  keeps  pace  with  the  energy  of  expression.  It  is  re- 
markable that  Mr.  Addison's  studious  imagination  of  Virgil's  manner,  hurt 
lis  English  poetry  sometimes,  though  it  always  improved  his  English  prose. 
The  reasoa  was,  he  had  no  facility  in  rhyming ;  and  so  was  obliged  many 
times  to  take  up  with  a  weaker  word  or  phrase,  than  its  place  in  his  verse 
required.  Hence,  the  frequent  redundancies  in  his  rhymed  poetry,  which 
were  intended  by  him,  as  amplifications.  In  his  prose,  he  was  under  no 
such  restraint ;  and  his  exact  taste  always  led  him  to  perfection.  That  this 
observation  is  just,  we  may  see  from  his  Cato,  where  the  freedom  of  blank 
verse,  as  it  is  called,  secured  him  from  this  mischance ;  and  from  these 
Latin  poems,  in  which  Virgilian  gradation  is  every  where  observed,  and 
nicely  imitated." — Hurd. 

"  Here  (Oxford)  he  continued  to  cultivate  poetry  and  criticism,  and 
grew  first  eminent  by  his  Latin  compositions,  which  are  indeed  entitled 
to  particular  praise.  He  has  not  confined  himself  to  the  imitation  of  any 
ancient  author,  but  has  formed  his  style  from  the  general  language,  such 
as  a  diligent  perusal  of  the  productions  of  different  ages  happened  to  supply. 

"  His  Latin  compositions  seem  to  have  had  much  of  his  fondness,  for  he 
collected  a  second  volume  of  the  'Musce  Anglicanoe,'  perhaps  for  a  conve- 
nient receptacle  in  which  all  his  Latin  pieces  are  inserted,  and  where  hii 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  46Q 

poem  on  the  Peace  has  the  first  place.  Three  of  his  Latin  poems  are  upon 
subjects  on  which,  perhaps,  he  woukl  not  have  ventured  to  have  written 
in  his  own  language  :  The  Battle  of  the  Pigmies  and  Cranes  ;  The  Baro- 
meter ;  and  a  Bowling  Green.  When  the  matter  is  low  or  scanty,  a  dead 
language,  in  which  nothing  is  mean  because  nothing  is  familiar,  affords 
great  conveniences;  and  by  the  sonorous  magnificence  of  Roman  syllables, 
the  writer  conceals  penury  of  thought  and  want  of  novelty  often  from  the 
reader  and  often  from  himself.  In  169*7  appeared  his  Latin  verses  on  the 
Peace  of  Ryswick,  which  he  dedicated  to  Montague,  and  which  was  after- 
wards called  by  Smith  *  the  best  Latin  poem  since  the  ^neid.'  Praise 
must  not  be  too  rigorously  examined ;  but  the  performance  cannot  be  de- 
nied to  be  vigorous  and  elegant." — Johnson — Life  of  Addison. 

Ogle's  opinion  is  less  favoi'able — "  He  collected  a  second  volume  of  the 
*  Musoe  Anglicanse,'  and  inserted  in  it  most  of  his  Latin  compositions. 
Though  they  will  always  be  valued  by  the  scholar,  and  considered  as 
productions  of  promise,  they  cannot  compete  with  the  poems  of  Buchanan, 
or  of  Vincent  Brown  ;  and  in  correctness  must  yield  not  only  to  Johnson, 
but  now  to  many  whose  classical  precision  has  been  derived  from  the 
labors  of  the  philologiats  of  the  greater  portion  of  a  century." — Ogle — Life 
of  Addison,  pp.  xv.,  xvi. 

Miss  Aikin  is  not,  perhaps,  the  best  authority  upon  this  subject — but  her 
remarks  deserve  insertion :  — 

"In  furtherance  of  this  design,  he  now  printed  at  the  Sheldon  press  a 
second  volume  of  the  Musae  Anglicanse,  in  which  his  own  poems  occupy  a 
conspicuous  place  ; — celebrated  productions  of  which  some  account  must 
here  be  given. 

"The  composition  of  Latin  verse,  even  when  not  a  commanded  exercise 
of  the  schools,  seems  an  effort  of  imitation  so  natural  and  obvious  to  the 
academic,  with  a  memory  stored  from  the  treasury  of  the  ancient  classics, 
and  a  taste  formed  almost  exclusively  on  their  models,  that  it  cannot  be 
regarded  as  a  serious  derogation  from  the  credit  of  early  English  scholar- 
ship, to  have  produced  so  little  of  this  kind  of  fruit.  Dr.  Johnson  has 
remarked,  that  before  the  appearance  of  the  works  of  Milton  and  Cowley, 
and  of  May's  Continuation  of  Lucan's  Pharsalia,  the  English  'appeared 
unable  to  contest  the  palm  of  Latin  poetry  with  any  other  of  the  learned 
nations.'  These  writers  had  found  no  successors  of  equal  merit  when 
Addison,  whether  moved  by  the  example  of  two  poets,  both  of  them  early 
objects  of  his  fervent  admiration,  or  solely  by  the  promptings  of  his  own 
elegant  and  highly  classical  spirit,  first  determined  to  build  up  a  literary 
reputation  on  the  foundation  of  Roman  song.  Some  pieces  of  merit  had 
however  been  produced,  which,  mingled  with  others  of  inferior  quality, 
had  issued  from  the  Oxford  press,  but  with  a  London  editor,  in  1691  in  a 
single  volume  entitled  Musae  AnglicanjB. 

"A  sequel  to  this  work,  also  from  the  Sheldon  press,  appeared  in  1699, 


470  FOEMATA. 

in  which  all  the  Latin  pieces  of  Addison,  eight  in  number,  were  con- 
tained ;  his  poem  on  the  Peace  leading  the  way.  No  name  of  editor  is 
given,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  selection  was  made  by  Addison  him- 
self nor  of  course  that  the  elegant  Latin  preface  which  reappeared  with 
some  improvements  in  the  enlarged  and  corrected  edition  of  1714,  was 
from  his  pen.  In  this  address  to  the  public  it  is  emphatically  stated  that 
no  piece  has  been  inserted  in  this  collection  but  with  the  consent  of  its 
author ;  and  a  severe  censure  is  passed  upon  the  editor  of  the  former 
volume,  who,  in  publishing  without  authority  several  imperfect  and  juve- 
nile attempts,  is  said,  to  have  consulted  his  own  profit  more  than  the  repu- 
tation of  the  writers.  The  absence  of  any  contributions  from  Cambridge 
scholars,  is  adverted  to  in  terms  of  great  politeness,  which  yet  suggest 
the  suspicion  that  they  had  been  withheld  from  a  spirit  of  petty  jealousy 
towards  the  rival  university. 

"  Great  and  general  was  the  applause  given  by  contemporary  scholars 
to  the  first  fruits  of  the  learned  muse  of  Addison ;  nor  has  their  fame 
proved  fugitive.  The  correctness  and  classical  purity  of  these  graeefol 
productions  have  received  no  attaint ;  and  although,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
observes,  that  praise  must  not  be  too  nicely  weighed  which  assigned  to 
his  poem  on  the  Peace  the  character  of  'the  best  Latin  poem  since 
Yirgil,' judges  of  the  present  day,  both  competent  and  impartial,  have 
held  that  in  the  flow  and  cadence  of  his  verse,  at  least,  Addison  has  more 
nearly  attained  the  sweetness  and  majesty  of  Virgil  than  any  other  mo- 
dern. 

"  It  appears  that  Addison,  on  setting  out  for  his  travels,  carried  with 
him  the  new  volume  of  Musse  Anglicanae,  and  occasionally  availed  himself 
of  it  as  a  kind  of  credential  letter  in  his  visits  to  the  scholars  of  the 
continent" — ^Aikin — Life  of  Addison,  pp.  48,  61. 


HOT^ORATISSIMO  VIRO 

CAEOLO    MONTAGU, 

AEMIGEEO,  SOACCHAEn  CANCELLAEIO,  iEEAEII  PEuEFEOTO,  REGI  A 
8E0EETI0EIBUS  CONSILIIS,  &o. 

Cum  tanta  auribus  tuis  obstrepat  vatum  nequissimorum 
turba,  nihil  est  cur  queraris  aliquid  inusitatum  tibi  con- 
tigisse,  ubi  praBclamm  hoc  argumentum  meis  etiam  nume- 
ris  violatum  conspexeris.  Quantum  virtute  bellica  prse- 
stent  Britanni,  recens  ex  rebus  gestis  testatur  gloria ;  quam 
vero  in  humanioribus  pacis  studiis  non  emineamus,  indicio 
sunt  quos  nuper  in  lucem  emisimus  versiculi.  Quod  si 
CoNGREVius  ille  tuus  divino,  quo  solet,  furore  correptus 
materiam  hanc  non  exornasset,  vix  tanti  esset  ipsa  pax,  ut 
ilia  laetaremur  tot  perditissimis  poetis  tarn  misere  decan- 
tata.  At,  dum  alios  insector,  mei  ipsius  oblitus  fuisse 
videor,  qui  baud  minores  forsan  ex  Latinis  tibi  molestias 
aUaturus  sum,  quam  quas  iUi  ex  vernaculis  suis  carminibus 
attulerunt;  nisi  quod  inter  ipsos  cruciatus  lenimentum 
aliquod  dolori  tribuat  tormenti  varietas.     Nee  quidem  un- 


472  DEDICATIO. 

quam  adduci  possem,  ut  poema  patrio  sermone  conscrip- 
tum  oculis  tuis  subjicerem,  qui  ab  istis  conatibus  casteros 
omnes  scribendo  non  minus  deterres,  quam  favendo  exci- 
taveris. 

Humanitatis  Tuse 

Cultor  'devotissimus, 

JosEPHus  Addison. 


POEMATA. 

PAX  GULIELMI  AUSPICIIS  EUEOP^  REDDITA,  1697. 

PosTQUAM  ingens  clamorque  virum,  strepitusque  tubarum, 
Atque  omnis  belli  cecidit  fragor  ;  aspice,  Caesar, 
Quae  tibi  solicit!,  turba  importuna,  poetae 
Munera  deducunt :  generosae  a  pectore  flammae, 
Diraeque  armoruin  effigies,  simulacraque  belli 
Tristia  diffugiant :  0  tandem  absiste  triumphis 
Expletus,  penitusque  animo  totum  excute  Mar  tern. 

N^n  ultra  ante  oculos  numeroso  milite  campi 
Miscentur,  solito  nee  fervent  arva  tumultu ; 
Stat  circum  alta  quies,  curvoque  innixus  aratro 
Desertas  fossas,  et  castra  minantia  castris 
Rusticus  invertit,  tacita  formidine  lustrans 
Horroremque  loci,  et  funestos  stragibus  agros. 
Jamque  super  vallum  et  munimina  longa  virescit 
Expectata  seges,  jam  propugnacula  rident 
Vere  novo ;  insuetos  mirabitur  incola  culmos, 
Luxuriemque  soli,  et  turgentem  a  sanguine  messem. 

Aspicis  ut  toto  excitus  venit  advena  mundo 
Bellorum  invisens  sedcm,  et  confusa  minis 
Oppida,  et  eversos  flammarum  turbine  muros  I 
Ut  trepidos  rerum  Annales,  tristemque  laborum 
Inquirit  seriem,  attonitis  ut  spectat  ocellis 


474  POEM  AT  A. 

Semirutas  turres,  et  adhuc  polluta  cruore 
Flumina,  famososque  Ormondi  volnere  campos ! 

Hie,  ubi  saxa  jacent  disperse  infecta  cerebro, 
Atque  interruptis  biscunt  divortia  muris, 
Yexillum  intrepidus  *  fixit,  cui  tempora  dudum 
Budenses  palmse,  peregrinaque  laurus  obumbrat. 
Hie  ruens  aciem  in  mediam,  qua  ferrea  grando 
Sparsa  fiirit  circum,  et  plumbi  densissimus  imber, 
Sulpbuream  noctem,  tetrasque  bitumine  nubes 
Ingreditur,  crebroque  rubentem  fulgure  fumum. 
Et  vario  anfractu,  et  disjectis  undique  saxis 
Maenia  discedunt,  scopulisque  immane  minantur 
Desuper  horrificis,  et  formidabile  pendent ! 

Hie  pestem  occultam,  et  foecundas  sulpbure  moles 
Cernere  erat,  magno  quas  inter  mota  tumultu 
Praelia  fervebant ;  subito  cum  claustra  fragor^ 
Horrendum  disrupta  tonant,  semiustaque  membra, 
Fumantesque  artus,  laniataque  corpora  letbum 
Corripit  informe,  et  rotat  ater  in  aethere  turbo. 

SiCj  postquam  Enceladi  dejecit  fulmine  fratres 
Coelicolum  pater,  et  vetuit  contemnere  divos : 
Divulsam  terrse  faciem,  ingentesque  ruinas 
Mortales  stupuere ;  altum  hinc  mirantur  abesse 
Pelion,  invertique  imis  radicibus  Ossam  ; 
Hie  fluvium  moles  inter  confusaque  saxa 
Reptare,  atque  aliis  discentem  currere  ripis. 
Stant  dubii,  et  notos  montes  umbrasque  requirunt, 
Errore  ambiguo  elusi,  et  novitate  locorum. 
Nempe  hie  Auriaci  nuper  vexilla  secutge 
Confluxere  aeies,  hie,  aspera  corda,  Britanni, 
Germanusque  ferox,  et  juncto  foedere  Belga ; 

•  Honoratissimus  D.  Dominus  CUTTS.     Baro  de  Gowran,  Ac. 


^ 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  475 

Quique  truci  Boreae,  et  coelo  damnatus  iniquo 
Vitam  agit  in  tenebris ;  et  qui  dudum  ore  perusto 
Decolor  admoti  prodit  vestigia  Phoebi : 
Undique  conveniunt,  totum  conscripta  per  orbem 
Agmina,  Nassovi  que  latus  socialibus  armis 
Circumfusa  tegunt,  fremitusque  et  murmura  miscent 
Tarn  vario  disjuncta  situ,  tot  dissona  linguis. 

Te  tamen  e  mediis,  *  Ductor  Fortissime  turmis 
Exere,  Tu  vitam  (si  quid  mea  carmina  possunt) 
Accipies,  populique  encomia  sera  futuri, 
Quem  varias  edoctum  artes,  studiisque  Minervs3 
■  Omnibus  ornatum  Marti  Rhedycina  furenti 
Credidit  invita,  et  tanto  se  jactat  alumno. 
Hunc  nempe  ardorem,  atque  immensos  pectoris  gestus 
Non  jubar  Arctoum,  aut  nostri  penuria  coeli, 
Sed  plaga  torridior,  qua  sol  intentius  omnes 
EfFundit  radios,  totique  obnoxia  Phoebo 
India  progenuit,  tenerisque  incoxit  ab  annis 
Yirtutem  immodicam,  et  generosae  incendia  mentis. 

Jam  quoque  torpentem  qui  infelix  suspicit  Arcton, 
Brumamque  geternam  frigusque  perambulat,  ursae 
Horridus  exuviis,  Gulielmi  ingentia  facta 
Describit  sociis,  pugnataque  in  ordine  bella 
Attentus  numerat,  neque  brumam  aut  frigora  curat. 
En  !  vastos  nivium  tractus  et  pallida  regna 
Deserit,  imperio  extremum  ''  qui  subjicit  orbem, 
Indigenasque  hyemes,  Britonumque  Heroa  pererrat 
Luminibus  tacitis ;  subeunt  nunc  fusa  Namurcae 
Maenia,  nunc  tardo  quae  sanguine  plurima  fluxit 
Boinia,  nunc  dubii  palma  indiscreta  Seneffi. 

■  Insig.  Dom.  Christoph.  Codrington,  unus  ex  Regii  Satellitii  Prffifectia. 
*  Muscovise  Imperator. 


476  POEM  AT  A 

Quae  facies,  et  quanta  viri !  quo  vertice  in  auraiS 
Assurgit !  quali  firmat  vestigia  gressu, 
Maj estate  rudi,  et  torvo  spectabilis  ore  ! 

Sic  olim  Alcides,  immania  membra  Leonis 
Instratus  spoliis,  vasta  se  mole  ferebat, 
Evandri  amplexus  dextramque  adjungere  dextrae 
Cum  peteret,  tectisque  ingens  succederet  hospes. 

Dum  pugnas,  Grulielme,  tuas,  camposque  cruentos 
Acoipit,  in  venis  ebullit  vividus  humor, 
Corda  mieant  crebro,  et  mentem  ferit  semulus  ardor. 
Non  jam  Riphaeos  hostis  populabitur  agros 
Impune,  aut  agitabit  inultas  Sarmata  praedas. 

Quis  tamen  ille  procul  fremitus  !     Quae  murmura  vulgi 
Nassovium  ingeminant !  video  cava  littora  cireum 
Fervere  remigibus,  subitisque  albescere  velis. 
Anglia  solve  metus,  et  inanes  mitte  querelas, 
Nassovi  secura  tui,  desiste  tumentes 
Prospicere  in  fluctus  animo  suspensa,  trucesque 
Objurgare  notos,  tardamque  requirere  puppim  : 
Optatus  tibi  Caesar  adest,  nee  ut  ante  videbis 
Sollicitum  belli  studiis,  fatalia  Gallo 
Consilia  et  tacitas  versantem  in  pectore  pugnas. 
Olli  grata  quies  et  pax  tranquilla  verendum 
Composuit  vultum,  laetosque  afflavit  bonores. 

Ut  denso  cireum  se  plurimus  agmine  miles 
Agglomerat  lateri !  ut  patriam  veteresque  penates 
Respicit  exultans  !  juvat  ostentare  recentes 
Ore  cicatrices,  et  vulnera  cruda,  notasque 
Mucronum  insignes,  afflataque  sulphure  membra. 
Chara  stupet  conjux,  reducisque  incerta  mariti 
Vestigat  faciem  ;  trepida  formidine  proles 
Stat  procul,  et  patrios  horrescit  nescia  vultus. 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  477 

Ille  graves  casus,  duri  et  discrimina  belli 
Enumerat,  tumidisque  instaiirat  praelia  verbis. 
Sic,  postquam  in  patriam  foecunda  beroibus  Argo 
Pbryxeam  attulerat  pellem,  lanamque  rigentem 
Exposuit  Graiis.  et  tortile  velleris  aurum, 
Navita  terrificis  infamia  littora  monstris 
Describit,  mixto  spirantem  incendia  fumo 
Serpentem,  vigilesque  feras,  plaustroque  gementes 
Insolito  tauros,  et  anhelos  igne  juvencos. 

Te  tamen,  0  quantis  Gulielme  erepte  periclis, 
Accipimus  reducem :  tibi  Diva  Britannia  fundit 
Plebemque  et  proceres  :  medias  quacunque  per  urbes 
Ingrederis,  crebrae  consurgunt  undique  pomp83, 
Gaudiaque  et  plausus :  mixto  ordine  vulgus  euntem 
Circumstat  fremitu  denso  :  Tibi  Jupiter  annum 
Serius  invertit,  luces  mirata  serenas 
Ridet  Hyems,  festoque  vacat  coelum  omne  triumpbo. 

Jamque "  nepos  tibi  parvus  adest,  laetoque  juventas 
Incessu,  et  blando  testatur  gaudia  risu. 
Ut  patrius  vigor  atque  elati  gratia  vultus 
Cassareum  spirant,  magistatemque  verendam 
Infundunt  puero  !  ut  mater  formosa  serenat 
Augustam  frontem,  et  sublimia  temperat  ora  ! 
Agnosco  faciem  ambiguam,  mixtosque  parentes. 
Ille  tuas,  Gulielme,  acies,  et  tristia  bella, 
Pugnasque  innocua  dudum  sub  imagine  lusit. 
Nunc  indignanti  similis  fugitiva  pusilla3  ' 
Terga  premit  turmae,  et  falsis  terroribus  implet, 
Sternitque  exiguum  ficto  cognomine  Galium. 
Nunc  simulat  turres,  et  propugnacula  parva 
Nominibus  signat  variis  ;  subitoque  tumultu 

«  Celsissimus  Princeps  Dux  Glocestrensis. 


4  78  POEM  ATA. 

Sedulus  infirmas  arces,  humilemque  Namurcam 
Diruit ;  interea  generosaB  in  pectore  flammaB 
Assurgunt  sensim  juveni,  notat  ignis  honestas 
Purpureo  fervore  genas,  et  amabilis  horror. 

Quis  tamen  Augustas  immensas  in  carmine  pompas 
Instruet,  in  luteos  ubi  vulgo  effusa  canales 
Vina  rubent,  variatque  infectas  purpura  sordes  ? 
Quis  lapsus  referet  stellarum,  et  fictile  caelum, 
Qua  laceram  ostendunt  redolentia  compita  chartam, 
Sulpburis  exuvias,  tubulosque  bitumine  cassos  ? 
En  procul  attonitam  video  clarescere  noctem 
Fulgore  insolito  !  ruit  undique  lucidus  imber, 
Flagrantesque  hyemes  ;  crepitantia  sidera  passim 
Scintillant,  totoque  pluunt  incendia  coelo. 
Nee  minus  in  terris  Vulcanus  mille  figuras 
Induit,  ignivomasque  feras,  et  fulgida  monstra, 
Terribiles  visu  formas  !  hie  membra  Leonis 
Hispida  mentitur,  tortisque  comantia  flammis 
Colla  quatit,  rutilasque  jubas ;  hie  lubricus  Anguem 
Ludit,  subsiliens,  et  multo  sibilat  igne. 

Lastitiam  ingentem  atque  effusa  haec  gaudia  civis 
Jam  tandem  securus  agit,  positoque  timore 
Exercet  ventos,  classemque  per  ultima  mundi 
Impune  educit,  pelagoque  licentius  errat : 
Seu  constricta  gelu,  mediisque  horrentia  Cancri 
Mensibus  arva  videt;  seu  turgida  malit  olenti 
Tendere  vela  nofo,  qua  thurea  flamina  miscet 
^olus,  et  placidis  perfundit  odoribus  auras. 

Yos  animae  illustres  heroum,  umbraeque  recentes, 
Quarum  trunca  jacent  et  adhuc  stillantia  crudis 
Corpora  vulneribus,  quibus  haec  optabilis  orbi 
Parta  quies,  nondum  Nassovo  abducite  vestro 


^ 


POEM  AT  A.  479 

Fida  satellitia,  at  solitis  stipate  catervis 
Ductorem,  et  tenues  circum  diflfundite  turmas. 
Tuque  Maria,  tuos  non  unquam  oblita  Britannos, 
0  Diva,  0  patiens  magnum  expectare  maritum, 
Ne  terris  Dominum  invideas,  quanquam  amplius  ilium 
Detineant,  longamque  agitent  sub  vindice  pacem. 


BAROMETRI  DESCRIPTIO. 

Qua  penetrat  fossor  terras  caeca  antra,  metallo 

Foecunda  informi,  rudibusque  nitentia  venis  ; 

Dum  stupet  occultas  gazas,  nummosque  futures, 

Eruit  argenti  latices,  nitidumque  liquorem ; 

Qui  nullo  effusus  prodit  vestigia  traetu, 

Nee  terram  signo  revolubilis  imprimit  udo, 

Sed  fractus  sparsim  in  globulos  formam  usque  rotundam 

Servat,  et  in  teretes  lapsans  se  coUigit  orbes. 

Incertum  qua  sit  natura,  an  negligat  ultra 
Perficier,  jubar  et  maturus  inutile  temnat ; 
An  potius  solis  vis  imperfecta  relinquat 
Argentum  male  coctum,  divitiasque  fluentes : 
Quicquid  erit,  magno  se  jactat  nobilis  usu  ; 
Nee  Deus  effulsit  magis  aspectabilis  olim, 
Cum  Danaen  flavo  circum  pretiosus  amictu 
Ambiit,  et,  gratam  suadente  libidine  formam, 
Depluit  irriguo  liquefactum  Numen  in  Auro. 

Quin  age,  sume  tubum  fragilem,  cui  densior  aer 
Exclusus  ;  fundo  vitri  subsidat  in  imo 
Argenti  stagnum ;  ut  pluvia  impendente  metallum 
Mobile  dcsccndat,  vel  cortra,  ubi  postulat  scstus. 


480  POEM  AT  A. 

Prodeat  hinc  liquor  emergens,  et  rursus  inane 
Occupet  ascensu,  tubulumque  excurrat  in  omnem. 

Jam  coeli  faciem  tempestatesque  futuras 
Conscia  Ijmpha  monet,  brumamque  et  frigora  narrat. 
Nam  quoties  liquor  insurgit,  vitreoque  canali 
Sublatum  nequeunt  ripae  cohibere  priores ; 
Turn  Isetos  sperare  dies  licet,  arva  fatentur 
jEstatem,  et  large  diffuso  lumine'  rident. 
Sin  sese  immodicum  attollens  Argenteus  humor, 
Et  nimium  oppressus,  contendat  ad  ardua  vitri, 
Jam  sitiunt  herbae,  jam  succos  flamma  feraces 
Excoquit,  et  languent  consumto  prata  virore. 

Cum  vero  tenues  nebulas  spiracula  terrse 
Fundunt,  et  madidi  fluitant  super  asquora  fumi, 
Pabula  Venturas  pluvias ;  turn  fusile  pondus 
Inferiora  petit ;  nee  certior  Ardea  coelos 
Indicat  humentes,  medias  quando  setheris  oras 
Tranando,  crassa  fruitur  sublimius  aura, 
Discutit  et  madidis  rorantia  nubila  pennis. 
Nunc  guttae  agglomerant,  dispef  sas  frigora  stipant 
Particulas,  rarusque  in  nimbum  cogitur  humor : 
Prata  virent,  segetem  foecundis  imbribus  aether 
Irrigat,  et  bibulae  radici  alimenta  ministrat. 
Quin  ubi  plus  aequo  descendens  uda  metalli 
Fundum  amat,  impatiens  pluviae,  metuensque  procellam, 
Agricolae  caveant ;  non  hoc  impune  colonus 
Aspicit ;  ostendet  mox  foeta  vaporibus  aura 
Collectas  hyemes,  tempestatemque  sonoram. 
At  licet  Argentum  mole  incumbente  levatum 
Subsidat,  penitusque  imo  se  condat  in  alveo, 
Oaetera  quaeque  tument ;  eversis  flumina  ripis 
Expatiata  ruunt,  spumantibus  aestuat  undis 


poEMAiA.  ■  481 

Diluvium,  rapidique  eflfusa  licentia  ponti 

Nulla  tacet  secreta  poll  mirabile  vitrum 
Quin  varies  coeli  vultus  et  tempora  prodit, 
Ante  refert,  quando  tenui  velamine  tutus 
Incedes,  quando  sperabis  frigidus  ignem. 

Augurio  hoc  fretus,  quanquam  atri  nubila  cceli 
Dirumpunt,  obscura  diem,  pluviasque  minantur ; 
Machina  si  neget,  et  sudum  promittat  apertum, 
Audax  carpat  iter  nimbo  pendente  viator ; 
Nee  metuens  imbrem,  poscentes  Messor  aristas 
Prosternat :  terras  jam  bruma  incumbit  inermis, 
Frigoraque  baud  nocitura  cadunt,  feriuntque  paratoa. 


n  YrMAIO-rEPANOMAXIA, 

SIVE, 

PRiELIUM 

INTER 

PYGMJEOS  ET  GRUES    COMMISSUM. 

Pennatas  acies,  et  lamentabile  bellum 
Pygmeadum  refero :  parvas  tu,  Musa,  cohortes 
Instrue ;  tu  gladios,  mortemque  minantia  rostra, 
Offensosque  Grues,  indignantesque  pusillam 
Militiam  celebra ;  volucrumque  hominumque  tumultus 

Heroum  ingentes  animos  et  tristia  bella 
Pieridum  labor  exhausit,  versuque  sonoro 
Jussit  et  aeterna  numerorum^assurgere  pompa  : 
Quis  lectos  Grraium  juvenes,  et  torva  tuentem 
Thesea,  quis  pedibus  velocera  ignorat  Achillem  ? 

VOL.    I. — 21 


482  P  O  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Qaem  dura  ^neae  certamina,  quern  Gulielmi 
Gesta  latent  ?  fratres  Thebani,  et  flebile  fatum 
Pompeii  quern  non  delassavcre  legentem  ? 
Primus  ego  intactas  acies,  gracilemque  tubarum 
Carmine  depingam  sonitum,  nova  castra  secutus ; 
Exiguosque  canam  pugiles,  Gruibusque  malignos 
Heroas,  nigrisque  ruentem  e  nubibus  hostem. 

Qua  solis  tepet  ortu,  primitiisque  diei 
India  laeta  rubet,  medium  inter  inhospita  saxa 
(Per  placidam  vallem,  et  paucis  accessa  vircta) 
Pygmaeum  quondam  steterat,  dum  fata  sinebant, 
Imperium.     Hie  varias  vitam  excoluere  per  artes 
Seduli,  et  assiduo  fervebant  arva  popello. 
Nunc  si  quis  dura  evadat  per  saxa  viator, 
Desertosque  lares,  et  valles  ossibu^  albas 
Exiguis  videt,  et  vestigia  parva  stupescit. 
Desolata  tenet  victrix  impune  volucris 
Regna,  et  securo  crepitat  Grus  improba  nido. 
Non  sic,  dum  multos  stetit  insuperabilis  annos 
Parvula  progenies  ;  turn,  si  quis  cominus  ales  ^ 

Congredi,  et  immixta3  auderet  se  credere  pugiias, 
Miles  atrox  aderat,  sumptisque  feroculus  armis 
Sternit  humi  volucrem  moribundam,  liumerisque  reportat 
Ingentem  praedam ;  cajsoque  epulatur  in  hoste. 
Saepe  improvisas  mactabat,  saGpe  juvabat 
Diripere  aut  nidum,  aut  ulcisci  in  prole  parentem. 
Nempe  larem  quoties  multa  construxerat  arte, 
Aut  uteri  posuisset  onus,  volucremque  futuram ; 
Continuo  vultu  spirans  immane  minaci 
Omnia  vastaret  miles,  foetusque  necaret 
Immeritos,  vitamque  abrumperet  imperfectam, 
Cum  tepido  nondum  maturuit  hostis  in  ovo. 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  483 

Hinc  causae  irarum,  bella  hinc,  fatalia  bella, 
Atque  acies  letho  intentae,  volucrumque  virumque 
Commissi)  strages,  confusaque  mortis  imago. 
Non  tantos  motus,  nee  tarn  memorabile  bellum, 
Maeonius  quondam  sublimi  carmine  vates 
Lusit ;  ubi  totam  strepituque  armisque  paludem 
Miscuit :  hie  (visu  miserabile  !)  corpora  murum 
Sparsa  jacent  juneis  transfixa,  hie  gutture  rauco 
E-ana  dolet,  pedibusque  abscisso  poplite  ternis 
Beptar  humi,  solitis  nee  sese  saltibus  eflfert. 

Jamque  dies  Pygmaso  aderat,  quo  tempore  caesi 
Poenituit  foetus,  intactaque  maluit  ova. 
Nam  super  his  accensa  graves  exarsit  in  iras 
Grus  stomachans ;  omnesque  simul,  quas  Strymonis  unda, 
Aut  stagnum  Mareotidis,  imi  aut  uda  Caystri 
Prata  tenent,  adsunt;  Scythicaque  exeita  palude, 
Et  conjurato  volucris  descendit  ab  Istro, 
Stragesque  immensas  et  vulnera  cogitat  absens, 
Exaeuitque  ungues  ictum  meditata  futurum, 
Et  rostrum  parat  acre,  fugaeque  accommodat  alas. 
Tantus  amor  belli,  et  vindictae  arrecta  cupido. 
Ergo  ubi  ver  nactus  proprium,  suspensus  in  alto 
Aere  concussis  exercitus  obstrepit  alis, 
Terrasque  immensos  tractus,  semotaque  longe 
^quora  despiciunt,  Boreamque  et  nubila  tranant 
Innumeri :  crebro  circum  ingens  fluctuat  aether 
Flamine,  et  assiduus  miscet  coelum  omne  tumultus, 

Nee  minor  in  terris  motus,  dum  bella  facessit 
Impiger,  instituitque  agmen,  firmatque  phalangas, 
Et  furit  arreptis  animosus  homuncio  telis : 
Donee  turma  duas  composta  excurrat  in  alas, 
Ordinibusque  frequens,  et  marte  instructa  perito^ 


484  P  0  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Jamque  acies  inter  medias  sese  arduus  infert 
Pjgmeadum  ductor,  qui  maj  estate  verendus 
Incessuque  gravis  reliquos  superemiiiet  omues 
Mole  gigantea,  mediamque  assurgit  in  ulnam. 
Torvior  aspectu  (hostilis  nam  insculpserat  unguis. 
Ore  cicatrices)  vultuque  ostentat  honesta 
Rostrorum  signa,  et  crudos  in  pectore  morsus. 
Immortali  odio,  seteraisque  exercuit  iris 
Alituum  gentem,  non  ilium  impune  volucris 
Aut  ore,  aut  pedibus  peteret  confisus  aduncis 
Fatalem  quoties  Gruibus  distrinxerat  ensem, 
Truncavitque  alas,  celerique  fugam  abstulit  hosti ! 
Quot  fecit  strages  !  quae  nudis  funera  puUis 
Intulit,  heu !  quoties  implevit  Strymona  fletu  ! 

Jamque  procul  sonus  auditur,  piceamque  volantun 
Prospectant  nubem  bellumque  hostesque  ferentem. 
Crebrescit  tandem,  atque  oculis  se  plurimus  offert 
Ordinibus  structus  variis  exercitus  ingens 
Alituum,  motisque  eventilat  aera  pennis. 
Turba  polum  replet,  specieque  immanis  obumbrat 
Agmina  Pygmaeorum,  et  densa  in  nubibus  haeret : 
Nunc  densa,  at  patriis  mox  reddita  rarior  oris. 
Belli  ardent  studio  Pygmaei,  et  lumine  saevo 
Suspiciunt  liostem  ;  nee  longum  tempus,  et  ingens 
Turba  G-ruum  horrifico  sese  super  agmina  lapsu 
Praecipitat  gravis,  et  bellum  sperantibus  infert : 
Fit  fragor  ;  avulsae  volitant  circum  aera  plumaB. 
Mox  defessa  iterum  levibus  sese  eripit  alis, 
Et  vires  reparata  iterum  petit  impete  terras. 
Armorum  pendet  fortuna  :  hie  fixa  volucris 
Cuspide,  sanguineo  sese  furibunda  rotatu 
Torquet  agens  circum,  rostrumque  intendit  in  hostem 


a 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  485 

Imbelle,  et  curves  in  morte  recolligit  ungues. 
Pygmaei  hie  stillat  lentus  de  vulnere  sanguis, 
Singulfusque  ciet  crebros,  pedibusque  pusillis 
Tundit  humum,  et  moriens  unguem  execratur  acutum. 
-^stuat  omne  solum  strepitu,  tepidoque  rubescit 
Sanguine,  sparguntur  gladii,  sparguntur  et  alae, 
Unguesque  et  digiti,  commistaque  rostra  lacertis. 

Pygmeadum  saevit,  mediisque  in  millibus  ardet 
Ductor,  queni  late  hinc  atque  hinc  pereuntia  cingunt 
Corpora  fusa  Gruum ;  mediaque  in  morte  vagatur. 
Nee  plausu  alarum,  nee  rostri  concidit  ietu.  ' 

lUe  G-ruum  terror,  ilium  densissima  circum 
Miscetur  pugna,  et  bellum  omne  laborat  in  uno : 
Cum,  subito  appulsus  (sic  Di  voluere)  tumultu 
Ex  inopino  ingens  et  formidabilis  Ales 
Comprendit  pedibus  pugnantem ;  et  (triste  relatu) 
Sustulit  in  coelum ;  bellator  ab  unguibus  haeret 
Pendulus,  agglomerat  strepitu  globus  undique  densus 
Alituum ;  frustra  Pygmaei  lumine  moesto 
Regem  inter  nubes  lugent,  solitoque  minorem 
Heroem  aspieiunt  Gruibus  plaudentibus  escam 

Jamque  recrudescit  bellum,  Grus  desuper  urget 
Pygmaeum  rostro,  atque  liostem  petit  ardua  morsu ; 
Tum  fugit  alta  volans ;  is  sursum  braehia  jacta 
Vulneris  impatiens,  et  inanes  saevit  in  auras. 
Talis  erat  belli  facies,  cum  Pelion  ingens 
Mitteret  in  coelum  Briarcus,  solioque  Tonantem 
Praecipitem  excuteret ;  sparguntur  in  aethere  toto 
Fulminaque  scopulique :  flagrantia  tela  deorsum 
Torquentur  Jovis  acta  manu,  dum  vasta  Gigantum 
Corpora  fusa  jacent,  semiustaque  sulpbure  fumant. 

Viribus  absumptis  penitus  Pygmeia  tandem 


486  P  0  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Agmina  languescunt ;  ergo  pars  vertere  terga 
Horribili  perculsa  metu,  pars  tollere  vocem 
Exiguam ;  late  populus  Cubitalis  oberrat. 
Instant  a  tergo  volucres,  lacerantque  trahuntque 
Immites,  certas  gentem  extirpare  nefandam. 

Sic  Pygmaea  domus  mnltos  dominata  per  annos, 
Tot  bellis  defuncta,  Gruum  tot  laeta  triumphis, 
Funditus  interiit :  Nempe  exitus  omnia  tandem 
Certus  Regna  manet,  sunt  certi  denique  fines, 
Quos  ultra  transire  nefas :  sic  corruit  olim 
Assjrige  Imperium,  sic  magnae  Persidis  imis 
Sedibus  eversum  est,  et  majus  utroque  Latinum. 
Elysii  valles  nunc  agmine  lustrat  inani, 
Et  veterum  Heroum  miscetur  grandibus  umbris 
Plebs  parva :  aut,  si  quid  fidei  mereatur  anilis 
Fabula,  Pastores  per  noctis  opaca  pusillas 
Saepe  vident  umbras,  Pygmaeos  corpore  cassos. 
Dum  secura  Gruum,  et  veteres  oblita  labores, 
Laetitias  penitus  vacat,  indulgetque  choreis, 
Angustosque  terit  calles,  viridesque  per  orbes 
Turba  levis  salit,  et  lemurum  cognomine  gaudet. 


1 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  487 


RESUKRECTIO 


AD   ALTARE   COL.    MAGD.    OXON. 

Egregios  fuci  tractus,  calamique  labores, 
Surgentesque  hominum  formas,  ardentiaque  ora 
Judicis,  et  simulacra  modis  pallentia  miris, 
Terribilem  visu  pompam,  tu  carmine  Musa 
Pande  novo,  vatique  sacros  accende  furores. 

Olim  planitiem  (quam  nunc  foecunda  colorum 
Insignit  pictura)  inhonesto  et  simplice  cultu 
Vestiit  albedo,  sed  ne  rima  ulla  priorem 
Agnoscat  faciem,  mox  fundamenta  futures 
Substravit  pictor  tabula),  humoremque  sequacem 
Per  muros  traxit ;  velamine  moenia  crasso 
Squallent  obducta,  et  rudioribus  illita  fuels. 

Utque  (polo  nondum  stellis  fulgentibus  apto) 
Ne  spatio  moles  immensa  dehiscat  inani, 
Per  cava  coelorum,  et  convexa  patentia  late 
Hinc  atque  hinc  kiterfusus  fluitaverat  aether ; 
Mox  radiante  novum  torrebat  lumine  mundum 
Titan,  et  pallens  alienos  mitius  ignes 
Cynthia  vibrabat ;  crebris  nunc  consitus  astris 
Scintillare  polus,  nunc  fulgor  Lacteus  omne 
DifBuere  in  coelum,  longoque  albescere  tractu. 

Sic,  operis  postquam  lusit  primordia  pictor, 
Dum  sordet  paries,  nullumque  fatetur  Apellem, 
Cautius  exercet  calamos,  atque  arte  tenacem 


488  P  O  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Oonfundit  viscum,  succosque  attemperat,  omnes 
Inducit  tandem  formas  ;  apparet  ubique 
Muta  coliors,  et  picturaruin  vulgus  inane. 

Aligeris  muri  vacat  ora  suprema  miuistris, 
Sparsaque  per  totam  coelestis  turba  tabellam 
Raucos  inspirat  lituos,  buccasque  tumentes 
Inflat,  et  attonitum  replet  clangoribus  orbem. 
Defunctis  sonus  auditur,  tabulamque  per  imam 
Picta  gravescit  humus,  terris  emergit  apertis 
Progenies  rediviva,  et  plurima  surgit  imago. 

Sic,  dum  fcecundis  Cadmus  dat  semina  sulcis, 
Terra  tumet  praegnans,  animataque  gleba  laborat, 
Luxuriatur  ager  segete  spirante,  calescit 
Omne  solum,  crescitque  virorum  prodiga  messis. 

Jam  pulvis  varias  terrae  dispersa  per  oras, 
Sive  inter  venas  teneri  concreta  metalli, 
Sensim  diriguit,  seu  sese  immiscuit  herbis, 
Explicita  est ;  molem  rursus  coalescit  in  unam 
Diyisum  funus,  sparsos  prior  alligat  artus 
Junctura,  aptanturque  iterum  coeuntia  membra. 
Hie  nondum  specie  perfecta  resurgit  imago, 
Vultum  truncata,  atque  inhonesto  vulnere  nares 
Manca,  et  adhuc  deest  informi  de  corpore  multum. 
Paulatim  in  rigidum  hie  vita  insinuata  cadaver 
Motu  aegro  vix  dum  redivivos  erigit  artus. 
Inficit  his  horror  vultus,  et  imagine  tota 
^  Fusa  per  attonitam  pallet  formido  figuram. 

Detrahe  quin  oculos  spectator,  et,  ora  nitentem 
Si  poterint  perferre  diem,  medium  inspice  murum, 
Qua  sedet  orta  Deo  proles,  Deus  ipse,  serene 
Lumine  perfusus,  radiisque  inspersus  acutis. 
Circum  tranquillse  funduntur  tempera  flammae, 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  48^ 

Regius  ore  vigor  spirat,  nitet  ignis  ocellis, 
Plurimaque  effulget  majestas  numine  toto. 
Quantum  dissimiiis,  quantum  o  !  mutatus  ab  illo, 
Qui  peccata  luit  cruciatus  non  sua,  vitam 
Quando  luctantcm  cunctata  morte  trahebat ! 
Sed  frustra  voluit  defunctum  Grolgotha  numen 
Condere,  dum  victa  fatorum  lege  triumphans 
Nativum  petiit  coBlum,  et  super  aetliera  vectus 
Despexit  lunam  exiguam,  solemque  minorem. 

Jam  latus  effossum,  et  palmas  ostendit  utrasque, 
Vulnusque  infixum  pede,  clavorumque  recepta 
Signa,  et  transacti  quondam  vestigia  ferri. 
Umbrae  hue  felices  tendunt,  numerosaque  coelos 
Turba  petunt,  atque  immortalia  dona  capessunt. 
^latres,  et  longae  nunc  reddita  corpora  vitae 
Infantum,  juvenes,  pueri,  innuptasque  puellae 
Stant  circum,  atque  avidos  jubar  immortale  bibentes 
Affigunt  oculos  in  Numine  ;  laudibus  aether 
Intonat,  et  laeto  ridet  coelum  omne  triumpho. 
His  amor  impatiens  conceptaque  gaudia  mentem 
Funditus  exagitant,  imoque  in  pectore  fervent. 
Non  aeque  exultat  flagranti  corde  Sibylla, 
Hospite  cum  tumet  incluso,  et  praecordia  sentit 
Mota  Dei  stimulis,  nimioque  calentia  Phoebo. 

Quis  tamen  ille  novus  perstringit  lumina  fulgor  ? 
Quam  Mitra  effigiem  distinxit  pictor,  honesto 
Surgentem  e  tumulo,  alatoque  satellite  fultam  ? 
Agnosco  faciem,  vultu  latet  alter  in  illo 
Wainfletus,''  sic  ille  oculos,  sic  ora  ferebat : 
Eheu  quando  animi  par  invenietur  Imago  ! 
Quando  alium  similem  virtus  habitura  ! — 

"  uoli.  Magd.  Fundator. 
VOL.    I.— 2P 


490  P  0  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Irati  innocuas  securus  numinis  iras 
Aspicifc,  impavidosque  in  Judice  figit  ocellos. 

Quin  age,  et  horrentem  commixtis  igne  tenebris 
Jam  videas  scenam  ;  multo  hie  stagnantia  fuco 
Moenia,  flagrantem  liquefacto  sulphur e  rivum 
Fingunt,  et  falsus  tanta  arte  accenditur  ignis, 
XJt  toti  metuas  tabulae,  ne  jBamma  per  omne 
Livida  serpat  opus,  tenuesque  absumpta  reeedat 
Pictura  in  cineres,  propriis  peritura  favillis. 
Hue  turba  infelix  agitur,  turpisque  videri 
Infrendet  dentes,  et  rugis  contrahit  ora. 
Vindex  a  tergo  implacabile  saevit,  et  ensem 
Fulmineum  vibrans  acie  flagrante  scelestos 
Jam  Paradiseis  iterum  depellit  ab  oris. 
Heu  !  quid  agat  tristis  ?  quo  se  coelestibus  iris 
Subtrahat  ?  o  !  quantum  vellet  nunc  aethere  in  alto 
Virtutem  colere  !  at  tandem  suspiria  ducit 
Nequicquam,  et  sero  in  lachrymas  effunditur ;  obstant 
Sortes  non  revocandae,  et  inexorabile  numen. 

Quam  varias  aperit  veneres  pictura !  periti 
Quot  calami  legimus  vestigia  !  quanta  colorum 
Gratia  se  profert !  tales  non  discolor  Iris 
Ostendat,  vario  cum  lumine  floridus  imber 
Rore  nitet  toto,  et  gutta  scintillat  in  omni. 

0  fuci  nitor,  o  pulchri  durate  colores ! 
Nee,  pictura,  tuae  languescat  gloria  formae, 
Dum  lucem  videas,  qualem  exprimis  ipsa,  supremam. 


il 


POEMATA.  49 1 


SPH^RISTEKIUM. 

Hic,  ubi  graminea  in  latum  sese  explicat  aequor 
Planities,  vacuoque  ingens  patet  area  campo, 
Cum  solem  nondum  fumantia  prata  fatentur 
Exortum,  et  tumidae  pendent  in  gramine  guttse, 
Improba  falx  noctis  parva  incrementa  prioris 
Desecat,  exiguam  radens  a  cespite  messem : 
Tum  motu  assiduo  saxum  versatile  terram 
Deprimit  extantem,  et  surgentes  atterit  herbas. 
Lignea  percurrunt  vernantem  turba  palaestram 
Uncta,  nitens  oleo,  formae  quibus  esse  rotundae 
Artificis  ferrum  dederat,  facilisque  moveri. 
Ne  tamen  offendant  incauti  errore  globorum 
Quaeque  suis  incisa  notis  stat  sphaera ;  sed  unus 
Hanc  vult,  quae  infuso  multum  inclinata  metallo 
Vertitur  in  gyros,  et  iniquo  tramite  currit ; 
Qu?ii  alii  diversa  placet,  quam  parcius  urget 
Piumbea  vis,  motuque  sinit  procedere  recto. 

Postquam  ideo  in  partes  turbam  distinxerat  aequas 
Consilium,  aut  sors  ;  quisque  suis  accingitur  armis. 
Evolat  orbiculus,  quae  cursum  meta  futurum 
Designat ;  jactique  legens  vestigia,  primam, 
Qui  certamen  init,  sphaeram  demittit.  at  ilia 
Leniter  effiisa,  exiguum  quod  ducit  in  orbem, 
Radit  iter,  donee  sensim  primo  impete  fesso 
Subsistat ;  subito  globus  emicat  alter  et  alter. 

Mox  ubi  funduntur  late  agmina  crebra  minorem 
Sparsa  per  orbiculum,  stipantque  freq^uentia  metam, 


492  POEM  AT  A. 

Atque  negant  faciles  aditus ;  jam  cautius  exit, 
Et  leviter  sese  insinuat  revolubile  lignum. 
At  si  forte  globum,  qui  misit,  spectat  inertem 
Serpere,  et  impressum  subito  languescere  motum, 
Pone  urget  spbasrae  vestigia,  et  anxius  instat, 
Objurgatque  moras,  currentique  imminet  orbi. 
Atque  ut  segnis  honos  dextrae  servetur,  i-niquam 
Incusat  terram,  ac  surgentem  in  marmore  nodum. 

Nee  risus  tacuere,  globus  cum  volvitur  actus 
Infami  jactu,  aut  nimium  vestigia  plumbum 
Allicit,  et  spbaoram  a  recto  trahit  insita  virtus. 
Tum  qui  projecit,  strepitus  effundit  inanes, 
Et,  variam  in  speciem  distorto  corpore,  falsos 
Increpat  errores,  et  dat  convitia  ligno. 
Sphaera  sed,  irarum  temnens  ludibria,  coeptum 
Pergit  iter,  nullisque  movetur  surda  querelis.      v 

Ilia  tamen  laudes  summumque  meretur  honorem, 
Quae  non  dirumpit  cursum,  absistitque  moveri, 
Donee  turbam  inter  crebram  dilapsa  supremum 
Perfecit  stadium,  et  metae  inclinata  recumbit. 
Hostis  at  haerentem  orbiculo  detrudere  sphaeram 
Certat,  luminibusque  viam  signantibus  omnes 
Intendit  vires,  et  missile  fortiter  urget : 
Evolat  adducto  non  segnis  sphaera  lacerto. 

Ilaud  ita  prosiliens  Eleo  carcere  pernix 
Auriga  invebitur,  cum  raptus  ab  axe  citato 
Currentesque  domes  videt,  et  fugientia  tecta. 

Si  tamen  in  duros,  obstructa  satellite  multo, 
Impingant  socios,  confundatque  orbibus  orbes  ; 
Tum  fervet  bills,  fortunam  damnat  acerbam, 
Atque  Deos  atque  astra  vocat  crudelia. — 

Si  vero  incursus  faciles,  aditumque  patentem 


^ 


po  EM  V  r  A  .  493 

Inveniat,  partoque  hostis  spolietur  honore  : 
Turba  fremit  confusa,  sonisque  frequentibus,  euge 
Exclamant  socii ;  plausu  strepit  omne  viretum. 

Interea  fessos  inimico  Sirius  astro 
Corripit,  et  falsas  exudant  corpora  guttas  ; 
Lenia  jam  zephyri  spirantes  frigora,  et  umbraa 
Captantur,  vultuque  fluens  abstergitur  humor. 


D.   D.    HANNES, 

INSIGNISSIMUM   MEDICUM   ET  POETAM. 

O  QUI  canoro  blandius  Orplieo 
Vocale  ducis  carmen,  et  exitu 
Feliciore  luctuosis 

SaBpe  animam  revocas  ab  umbris, 
Jam  seu  solutos  in  numerum  pedes 
Cogis,  vel  aegrum  et  vix  animse  tenax 
Corpus  tueris,  seu  cadaver 
Luminibus  penetras  acutis ; 
Opus  relinquens  eripe  te  morae, 
Frontemque  curis  solicitam  explica, 
Scypbumque  jucundus  require 
Purpureo  gravidum  Lyaeo. 
Nunc  plena  magni  pocula  postules 
Memor  Wilhelmi,  nunc  moveat  sitim 
Minister  ingens,  imperique 

Praesidium  baud  leva,  Montacutus. 


494  P  O  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Omitte  tandem  triste  negotium 
Gravesque  curas,  heu  nimium  plus  I 
Nee  casteros  cautus  mederi 
Ipse  tuam  minuas  salutem. 
Frustra  cruorem  pulsibus  incitis 
EbuUientem  poUice  comprimiS, 
Attentus  explorare  venam 

Qua3  febris  exagitet  tumentem  : 
Frustra  liquores  quot  Chymica  expedit 
Fornax,  et  error  sanguinis,  et  vigor 
Innatus  lierbis  te  fatigant : 
Serius  aut  citius  sepulchro 
Debemur  omnes,  vitaque  deseret 
Expulsa  morbis  corpus  inhospitum, 
Lentumque  deflebunt  nepotes 
(Relliquias  animae)  cadaver. 
Manes  videbis  tu  quoque  fabulas, 
Quos  pauciores  fecerit  ars  tua ; 
Suumque  victorem  vicissim 
Subjiciet  libitina  victrix. 
Decurrit  illi  vita  beatior 
Quicunque  lucem  non  nimis  anxius 
Keddit  molestam,  urgetve  curas 
Sponte  sua  satis  ingruentes  ; 
Et  quem  dierum  lene  fluentium 
Delectat  ordo,  vitaque  mutuift 
Felix  amicis,  gaudiisque 
Innocuis  bene  temperata 


^ 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  40? 


MACHINE   GESTICULANTES, 


A  PUPPET-SHOW. 

Admiranda  cano  levium  spectacula  rerum, 
Exiguam  gentem,  et  vacuum  sine  mente  popellum ; 
Quern,  non  surreptis  coeli  de  fornice  flammis, 
Innoeua  melior  fabricaverat  arte  Prometheus. 

Com|)ita  qua  risu  fervent,  glomeratque  tumultum 
Histrio,  delectatque  inhiantem  scommate  turbam  ; 
Quotquot  laetitiae  studio  aut  novitate  tenentur, 
Undique  congressi  permissa  sedilia  complent. 
Nee  confusus  honos  ;  nummo  subsellia  cedunt 
Diverso,  et  varii  ad  pretium  stat  copia  scamni. 
Tandem  ubi  subtrahitur  velamen,  lumina  passim 
Angustos  penetrant  aditus,  qua  plurima  visum 
Fila  secant,  ne,  cum  vacuo  datur  ore  fenestra, 
Pervia  fraus  pateat :  mox  stridula  turba  penates 
Ingreditur  pictos,  et  maenia  squallida  fuco. 
Hie  humiles  inter  scenas,  angustaque  claustra, 
Quicquid  agunt  homines,  concursus,  bella,  triumphos, 
Ludit  in  exiguo  plebecula  parva  theatro. 

Sed  praeter  reliquos  incedit  Homuncio  rauca 
Voce  strepens ;  major  subnectit  fibula  vestem, 
Et  referunt  vivos  errantia  lumina  motus ; 
In  ventrem  tumet  immodicum  ;  pone  eminet  ingens 
A  tergo  gibbus ;  Pygmaeum  territat  agmen 
Major,  et  immanem  rairatur  turba  Grigantem. 


496  r  O  E  M  A  T  A  . 

Hie  magna  fretus  mole,  imparibusque  lacertis 
Confisus,  gracili  jactat  convitia  vulgo, 
Et  crebro  solvit,  lepidum  caput,  ora  cachinno. 
Quanquam  res  agitur  solenni  seria  pompa, 
Spernit  sollicitum  intractabilis  ille  turaultum, 
Et  risu  importunus  adest,  atque  omnia  turbat. 
Nee  raro  invadit  molles,  pictamque  protervo 
Ore  petit  Njmpbam,  invitoque  dat  oscula  ligno. 

Sed  eomitum  vulgus  diversis  membra  fatigant 
Ludis,  et  vario  lascivit  mobile  saltu. 

S^epe  etiam  gemmis  rutila,  et  spectabilis  auro, 
Lignea  gens  prodit,  nitidisque  superbit  in  ostris. 
Nam,  quoties  festam  celebrat  sub  imagine  lucem, 
Ordine  composito  Nympbarum  incedit  bonestum 
Agmen,  et  exigui  proceres,  parvique  quirites. 
Pygmasos  credas  positis  mitescere  bellis, 
Jamque,  infensa  Grruum  temnentes  prselia,  tutos 
Indulgere  jocis,  tenerisque  vacare  choreis. 

Tales,  cum  medio  labuntur  sidera  coelo, 
Parvi  subsiliunt  Lemures,  populusque  pusillus 
Festivos,  rediens  sua  per  vestigia,  gyros 
Ducit,  et  angustum  erebro  pede  pulsitat  orbem. 
Mane  patent  gressus  ;  bine  succos  terra  feraces 
Concipit,  in  multam  pubentia  gramina  surgunt 
Luxuriem,  tenerisque  virescit  cireulus  berbis. 

At  non  tranquillas  nulla  abdunt  nubila  luces, 
Saepe  gravi  surgunt  bella,  horrida  bella,  tumultu. 
Arma  cient  truculenta  cobors,  plaeidamque  quietem 
Dirumpunt  pugnae  ;  usque  adeo  insincera  voluptas 
Omnibus,  et  mistae  castigant  gaudia  curae. 
Jam  gladii,  tubulique  ingesto  sulphure  foeti, 
Protensaeque  bastae,  fulgentiaque  arma,  minaeque 


n 


POEM  AT  A  497 

Telorum  ingentcs  subeunt ;  dant  claustra  fragorem 
Horrendum,  ruptae  stridente  bitumine  chartse 
Confusos  reddunt  crepitus,  et  sibila  miscent. 
Sternitur  omne  solum  pereuntibus  ;  undique  csesse 
Apparent  turmae,  civilis  crimina  belli. 

Sed  postquam  insanus  pugnae  deferbuit  sestus, 
Exuerintque  truces  animos,  jam  Marte  fugato, 
Diversas  repetunt  artes,  curasque  priores. 
Nee  raro  prisci  heroes,  quos  pagina  sacra 
Suggerit,  atque  olim  peperit  felicior  aetas. 
Hie  parva  redeunt  specie.     Cano  ordine  cernas 
Antiques  prodire,  agmen  venerabile,  Patres. 
Rugis  sulcantur  vultus,  prolixaque  barbae 
Canities  mento  pendet :  sic  tarda  senectus 
TiTHONUM  minuit,  cum  moles  tota  cicadam 
Induit,  in  gracilem  sensim  collecta  figuram. 

Nunc  tamen  unde  genus  ducat,  qnse  dextra  latentes 
Suppeditet  vires,  quem  poscat  turba  moventem, 
Expediam.     Truncos  opifex  et  inutile  lignum  * 

Cogit  in  humanas  species,  et  robore  natam 
Progeniem  telo  efformat,  nexuque  tenaci 
Crura  ligat  pedibus,  humerisque  accommodat  armos, 
Et  membris  membra  aptat,  et  artubus  insuit  artus. 
Tunc  habiles  addit  trochleas,  quibus  arte  pusillum 
Versat  onus,  molique  manu  famulatus  inerti 
Sufficit  occultos  motus,  vocemque  ministrat. 
His  structa  auxiliis  jam  machina  tota  peritos 
Ostendit  sulcos,  duri  et  vestigia  ferri : 
Hinc  salit,  atque  agili  se  sublevat  incita  motu, 
Vocesque  emittit  tenues,  et  non  sua  verba. 


498  POEM  AT  A. 


n 


AD    INSIGNISSIMUM    VIRUM 

D.    THO.    BUENETTUM, 

SACR^    THEORI^    TELLURIS  AUTOREM, 
NoN  usitatum  carminis  alitem. 


BuRNETTE,  poscis,  non  humiles  modos : 
Yulgare  plectrum,  languidaeque 
Bespuis  officium  camoenae. 
Tu  mixta  rerum  semina  conscius, 
Molemque  cernis  dissociabilem, 
Terramque  concretam,  et  latentem 
Oceanum  gremio  capaci : 
Bum  veritatem  quaerere  pertinax 
Ignota  pandis,  soUicitus  parum 
Utcunque  stet  commune  vulgi 
Arbitrium  et  popularis  error. 
Auditur  ingens  continuo  fragor, 
Illapsa  tellus  lubrica  deserit 
Fundamina,  et  compage  fracta 
Suppositas  gravis  urget  undas. 
Impulsus  erumpit  medius  liquor 
Terras  aquarum  effusa  licentia 
Claudit  vicissim ;  has  inter  orbis 
Belliquiae  fluitant  prioris. 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A  .  499 


Nunc  et  recluso  carcere  lucidam 
Balaena  spectat  solis  imaginem, 
Stellasque  miratur  nataiites, 
Et  tremulae  simulacra  lunae. 
Quae  pompa  vocum  non  imitabilis  I 
Qualis  calescit  spiritus  ingeni  ! 
Ut  tollis  undas  !  ut  frementem 
Diluvii  reprimis  tumultum  ! 
Quis  tarn  valenti  pectore  ferreus 
TJt  non  tremiscens  et  timldo  pede, 
Incedatj  orbis  dum  dolosi 
Detegis  instabiles  ruinas  ? 
Quin  baec  cadentum  fragmina  montium 
Natura  vultum  sumere  simplicem 
Coget  refingens,  in  priorem 
Mox  iterum  reditura  formam. 
Nimbis  rubentem  sulpbureis  Jovem 
Cernas ;  ut  udis  saevit  atroi.  hjems 
Incendiis,  commune  mundo 
Et  populis  meditata  bustum ! 
Nudus  liquentes  plorat  Atbos  nivea, 
Et  mox  liquescens  ipse  adamantinum 
Fundit  cacumen,  dum  per  imas 
Saxa  fluunt  resoluta  valles. 
Jamque  alta  coeli  moenia  corruunt, 
Et  vestra  tandem  pagina  (proh  nefas  I) 
BuRNETTE,  vestra  augebit  ignes, 
Heu  socio  peritura  mundo. 
Mox  aequa  tellus,  mox  subitus  viror 
Ubique  rident :  En  teretem  globum  ' 
En  laeta  vernantis  Favonl 

Flamina,  perpetuosque  flores  ! 


500 


P  O  E  M  A  T  A 


0  pectus  ingens  !  0  animum  gravem, 
Mundi  capacem<!  si  bonus  auguror, 
Te,  nostra  quo  tellus  superbit, 
Accipiet  renovata  civem. 


1 


^ 


c/^ 


JL 


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